


Dead Ringers and Cold Corpses

by alyxpoe



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: 1980s AU, AU, Angst, Crime, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Fluff, F/M, Gen, Graphic injuries, Grief, Homicide, Horse Racing, Horses, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Minor Character Deaths, Murder, Romance, Slow-building Relationship, a royally fucked up beyond nasty bad guy, did I mention this is an AU?, men having sex, men kissing, please heed warnings if you are grossed out easily, steeplechasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-23
Updated: 2013-10-27
Packaged: 2017-12-27 11:07:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 23
Words: 57,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/978103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alyxpoe/pseuds/alyxpoe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This cannot be death.<br/>Just…not this disappointing lack of everything.<br/>Alone on the narrow hospital cot, Sherlock Holmes’ voice breaks with screams he cannot hear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Please heed warnings: there will be a description of a rather grievous injury herein. If it makes you feel squicky, well, you have been warned. 
> 
> Also-please note: you are all already aware of the fact that yes, I am crazy. I've had this story in outline for long enough, it's time for it to see the light of day. Saddle up, hang on and let's see where it takes us!

**_It_** _is not the loud sounds and the crashing of slender, strong legs through the brush that make him feel disoriented, though the memory is as far away and as close up as it will ever be in this moment. It is not the way his head buzzes and the world around spins in concentric circles over and over and over into infinity._

_It is instead the total silence. The darkness that threatens to completely overwhelm him; it is suffocating in its utter boundlessness. He still feels the strength of the hollow-sounding knock against his skull that ultimately splits his helmet; the hit that brings about the impenetrable blackness. He sits up, though he is completely unaware of doing so; his legs thrash out and he screams into the silent suffocating darkness for want of nothing more than to be alive._

_This cannot be death._

_Just…not this disappointing lack of_ everything.

 _Alone on the narrow hospital cot, Sherlock Holmes’ voice breaks with screams he cannot hear. He can, however, taste the metallic coppery stuff in his mouth that is either blood or medication. Blood pounds against the sides of his head, squeezing it tight with each beat of his heart. He gropes about with hands he is unable to see until there is another set of what may be human hands reaching out, holding him steady, pinning down his arms and legs that yes, he can feel but he is thrashing, fighting against the nothingness; now he is completely wound up in the thin sheet and single blanket and he is silently screaming, needing nothing more than to_ get away _. He will not perish in this manner. It is unthinkable._

_He is unaware of the sweat pouring off of his thinly-clothed, trembling body; he is also unaware of the tears running down fever-flushed cheeks. His body is spiraling wickedly deeper into shock. The pain is too much and so he fights it with every fiber of his being. He is thankfully unaware of his compromised position where he is clinging to his rather burly nurse in an undignified fashion whilst the much larger man is attempting to calm him. At some point, he feels a sharp sting in the vicinity of his right arm and the world swims in random colors in front of sightless eyes and then melds back into a warm, enveloping darkness that eclipses even the worst of the black velvet vertigo where there is not even a sense of time passing. Everything tastes like gray._

^=^

Several hours later, consciousness returns with the force of being hit by a five hundred forty kilogram equine; a feeling he is _not_ unfamiliar with. His mind is slammed back into his body by searing pain that shoots up the side of his face, down his neck and skates across his ribcage like a jolt of electricity. The pain forces his head back against the pillows and even though they are relatively soft, his eyes open with the shock of the slight jounce.

Light floods his photoreceptors and for an instant he almost weeps with joy that he can _see_. In the same instant, he picks up the bone-jarring beeping sounds of machines that surround him with their aloof unfriendliness as they stand there together reminding him that he is completely alone. It is overwhelming but before he passes out again, there is the recognition of an alarm going off somewhere around his head even if nothing else since the accident makes any sense.

^=^

Glittering dust motes float gently through the air in front of his eyes; tiny mirrors defying gravity as they alternately reflect the light and then promptly flip over into shadow as they fall towards their collective doom on the tiled floor. They ride on the shafts of sunlight like the leaves that fall from trees, whispering to him of the secrets of the universe and inviting him to follow onto surreptitious trails that only foolish dreamers may tread. He reaches out with one hand and idly studies the scratches against his pale skin. Long fingers seem to float alongside as they attempt to pinch at the miniscule flecks of dust with no chance of ever catching them.

He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes as sharp pain fogs his vision, though it is nowhere near as acute as the first time he awoke. After a moment, the haze passes and his attention returns to the happy little dust motes. He hums under his breath a bit, feeling the hitch and strain on what he is sure is at least three broken ribs. Gently he explores the side of his face that is apparently completely bandaged. Underneath it he knows the skin is raw and bruised; he wonders vaguely how many stitches there will be to contend with. He feels a dull pressure in his bladder that is instantly taken away. For some reason, his entire pelvic region is completely numb. Slightly disgusted, he scowls a little and lifts his head from the pillows in an attempt to look down at his battered body.

His left leg is in a cast from the knee down and is held up off the bed via traction. He moves his toes a little, satisfied that there appears to be a lack of nerve damage; he can feel the cool air of the room at large against the bare skin of his foot. He nods to himself as he stretches his right leg and wiggles those toes, watching for the movement underneath the coffee-stain colored blanket. He turns his attention to his left arm where it lays in a sling against what he knows now is busted ribs. The wrist is bruised a deep purple that is outlined with a sickly green. He gingerly moves his fingers and another rogue grunt escapes him. Really, it seems like the worst injury is to his head. The fingers of his right hand pat against the bandages, slowly attempting to discern the extent of the injury. Before he can further explore, however, there is the sound of a door clicking open and footsteps coming in his direction. He takes in a deep breath that sends yet another jolt of pain up his side then tries desperately to appear cool and in control.

“Good morning, Mr. Holmes.” An absolutely and completely overly cheery female voice greets him. He is pretty much trapped here and decides to stare at her shoes instead of her face. He sighs and winces from the pain of his battered ribcage attempting to accommodate his bruised lungs.

For as long as he can remember, he has always had the uncanny ability to see more about a person than they desire to share with the world; to those who _observe,_ the details are evident in the way people dress, speak and even move. He watches the shoes approach and considers that they belong to a quiet young woman who apparently has spent the majority of her years growing up in educational institutions and possibly dresses much older than her actual years. Also, she has at least two female siblings, both younger than she is.

The simple, sturdy work shoes of the doctor stop by the side of his bed. He can make out the sound of her pen scratching against paper, obviously making notes on his chart. She is quiet for a few moments and he cannot help but look up.

The doctor is not looking at him, rather she is studying the readouts from the various machines parked by and hooked up to various places on his body. Her brown hair is long and straight, pulled back away from her face in a ponytail ringed by a brightly colored band of material. She is wearing the standard white lab coat, underneath it a plain pale pink top and khaki slacks. Her black stethoscope hangs in the center of her small breasts as if it were an accessory rather than a tool. When she finally meets his eyes, he notes the virtual lack of make-up on her face, save for a tiny bit of lipstick and light eye shadow. She offers him a smile as she removes her dark-rimmed glasses from her face, absent-mindedly poking one of the plastic arms into her mouth and chewing it a little before speaking.

“Mr. Holmes, do you know where you are?” She asks, pulling her glasses out of her mouth.

“Hospital, obviously.” His voice is weak and strained but he does manage to allow his irritation with stupid questions to show through.

“Alright, Mr. Holmes. I understand these are going to be silly questions, but I need to ascertain your current mental capabilities. Will you bear with me for just a few moments?”

Sherlock does not answer, though he does blink his eyes in reply. The doctor, whose last name appears to be “Hooper” according the tag on her chest, nods to him.

“Good then. Who is the current Prime Minister?”

Sherlock glares up at her through the dirty fringe of hair on his forehead. He has never cared for politics, current or otherwise, unless they personally affect his job; which they most certainly do not. Therefore, Dr. Hooper gets _the glare_.  She gives him another lop-sided grin, thinking that his concussed state must be improving if he can be stubborn and then wonders if he is always like this or if it is a result of all the injuries.

“Fine. Would you at least tell me what year it is?” She attempts to glare back at him and fails drastically. To her, he looks a tad funny with the stern expression across his face and his body quite literally trapped on the bed via the leg in traction; if it were not there, it would seem as if he would jump off the bed and storm away. To him, she seems a bit too much of a sheep to be attempting any type of wolf act. Of course, if he just gives her what she wants then maybe she will just leave him in peace.

“1985.” He answers then attempts to cross both arms across his chest, apparently forgetting about the injured one in the sling. He wrinkles his nose when he winces. He is still slightly bothered by the fact that he cannot feel his rear end.

“Yes, Mr. Holmes. A couple more questions and I can give you something for that. I am sure that your leg will be aching before long, as well as, ehem, other parts.” Dr. Hooper slips her glasses back on her face and then returns to writing on the paper on the clipboard in her hand. “Do you remember what happened to you?”

“I remember some of it.” Sherlock answers, his green eyes watching her pen move across the paper. “You misspelled ‘concussion,’ doctor, it has two S’s.” Dr. Hooper looks at him with a mix of awe tinged with irritation.

“You can read my notes without seeing them?” Her brown eyes are filled with a hint of something he cannot readily discern.

“Yes. Most of the words; enough to see your mistake.” His voice rumbles from his chest as he leans back against the ridiculous stack of pillows behind him.

“Mr. Holmes, please answer the question.”

“I already have.” Sherlock gingerly rubs the scab on the back of his right hand with the fingers of the left one. That hurts, too, so he stops abruptly.

“No, Mr. Holmes you have not. Do you remember what happened to you?”

Sherlock grits his teeth against the redundancy; might as well give in so she will give up some pain meds. “My horse went down at the third fence. I remember feeling him stumble a little when we landed after the second fence, though he recovered and we stayed ahead until he fell. He went down like a sack of stones. We were in the lead, so I am assuming by my injuries that I was stepped on by at least three others after I hit the ground. That is what I remember, doctor. Now could you fill in the rest for me?” He actually smiles back at her, allowing his eyes to go wide and soft. Inside, though, his biggest fear is not broken legs or arms or concussions—those will heal given time. He most fears to hear that his spine is damaged.

Of course, his little ruse works like a charm and Doctor Hooper practically melts into the chair next to his bed. She sighs a little, knowing full well that he probably is not ready for this, but completely unable to refuse those _eyes_.

“Mr. Holmes, your left leg is broken in two places; you have a concussion underneath the twenty-five stitches that cross your scalp. Your head was lacerated by the second horse whose hoof caught your face and head, after the first one stepped directly on you and smashed your helmet. Your left shoulder has been dislocated; your left hand is badly bruised, though luckily nothing was broken there. You have two broken ribs and a third that has been stretched almost to the point of breaking. Effectively, you are going to be down for the count for quite some time.”Dr. Hooper’s voice has now taken on a pitch of authority.

Sherlock takes all of this in without comment; he had already surmised most of it. Dr. Hooper continues. “You have minor and massive bruising all over your torso and your back. You somehow managed to escape a broken collar bone. Also, um…” Here she pauses and her face turns scarlet. She clears her throat and attempts to be professional. She places one hand over her eyes and stares at the floor for a moment before she can get herself back under control. This is the part she hoped that Dr. Maynard would help with, though he was called into an emergency surgery at the last moment. She sighs again, forcing herself to meet her patient’s eyes.

“Your, um. Hold on.” She closes her eyes, turns her head away and starts over. “Mr. Holmes, your entire groin area was stepped on. We were able to repair the damage, I assure you, though you are going to be sore for quite some time. We had to remove the left testicle. I have been assured by several of my colleagues that you will eventually recover all former function, though your ability to produce viable sperm will be lowered considerably.”

At this rather shaky announcement, Sherlock does not say a word. He merely lifts the blanket covering him and peers down as if he could see. Not so bad, that, since making babies has always been one of the last things on his mind. He looks back up to the doctor and gestures towards himself. “The catheter.” It is not a question. The unsaid question- _Is it permanent?-_ hangs in the air between them.

“Yes. Well.” She trails off again, finding that his calm reaction is helping her out with this entire situation. She has never faced anything quite this intimate before and is finding it a bit difficult to discuss face-to-face. He needs to know. “Apparently, one hoof caught you, Mr. Holmes. It did not slice through, but there was enough soft tissue damage that you are going to need to heal a bit more before we can remove the tubing. Again, I have been assured that you will recover all former function.”

“Fine. Is that _all_?” Sherlock’s clipped words pass between clenched teeth. The numbness is starting to ebb, creating a dull ache that will soon be just a drum solo away from a full heavy metal concert in his head and his groin.

Dr. Hooper stands up and pushes a stray hair behind her ear. “Yes. How is your head?”

“It hurts.” He gets out before the throbbing threatens to take over. She nods silently and withdraws a syringe and a small sterile pad from her pocket. He meekly holds out an arm and does not flinch at the feeling of the cool metal pricking his skin. The drug acts fast and soon he is floating on a soft cottony haze again and does not hear the door close behind her.

^=^

“That was horribly uncomfortable.” Melanie Hooper says to Stephen Maynard some time later when they are both unwinding over a cup of coffee in the hospital cafeteria. She fiddles with the styrofoam rim, picking pieces off of it so that it looks like it’s been chewed. Stephen chuckles at her and lays one of his large over-scrubbed hands on her small one on the table.

“Maybe you should be in your sister’s line of work if talking to living ones is too difficult.” He says with a grin. Melanie gently slaps his shoulder. Thinking of her sisters always makes her smile. It is no secret that she misses them.

“You should have been there, Stephen. The poor man was so shaken that he barely even answered me. Maybe it is true what they say about you men and your second brain.” Standing up, she finishes the last of her coffee and pushes the red plastic chair back into its place.

“Will I see you tonight?” Stephen asks.

“I think so. What time are you picking me up?” She gives him a coy grin.

“It should be about eight if I get out of here on time.” Stephen is now standing in front of her, both of his hands on her hips, thumbs gently rubbing against the top of her slacks through the lab coat. He leans in and gives her a soft peck on the lips. Melanie smiles as she leaves, turning back once to give him a little wave and blow him a kiss. He waves back at her, finishes his coffee and exits the café to complete his rounds.

Around seven that evening, a strange case is brought into the A&E: a man about twenty-five years old who seems to be in the final, fatal stages of an overdose. He was found passed out on the floor in the back room of one of the local stables. His pockets contain no identification and no one came in with him. He is only wearing jeans and a decrepit T-shirt, both caked with mud, manure and possibly blood. Even stranger is that he is barefoot. Stephen’s first thought is that the young man is possibly a stable hand, if that was the case he would be wearing trainers at least.

The patient is labeled as yet another John Doe, something that always seems to make Dr. Maynard feel a bit sad. He wonders for a moment if the boy’s body will even be claimed.  It is always a bit disheartening when a patient comes in that is already beyond their help.

Stephen writes in his chart that the young man’s black and blue face looks as if he has been kicked in the face by a horse or he has been beat about the head with something large and round. There are several abrasions and contusions on his torso, perhaps the aftermath of a fist fight? Without a witness, they may never know the full circumstances surrounding the incident. Of course, Stephen knows from experience that tragedies like this often occur outside the knowledge of employers, family and sometimes even friends. He sighs and scratches at his scalp, the plastic chair underneath him groaning against the sudden movement. It is relatively quiet at the nurses’ station this evening, giving Dr. Maynard a bit of a breather.  

The young man never regains consciousness and thirty minutes after he is brought in his eyes are fixed and staring coldly out into the distance. It will be the next day before Dr. Maynard will be able to view the results of the man’s blood test; of course they may be of little consequence now. He completes his paperwork on the case, hurriedly scribbles his signature at the bottom of the page and heads towards the locker room to change clothes before picking up Melanie. In his mind, the young man was dead before he ever got to the hospital, but it is not his call. He sighs wearily as he walks out to the parking lot, wondering if he will ever forget the pitiful sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 540 kg is approximately 1200 lbs


	2. For Want of A Nail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From outside, the eldest Holmes son watches his thirty-year-old teenage brother make his painful way through the door and then down a flight of stairs to his bedroom. He cannot see his sibling actually go down the steps, though with each bang of the crutches against the stairs and then the slamming of another door, he has a pretty good idea what is happening. Which naturally leads to his next thought: what kind of shitstorm are we in for?

**T** he ride home from hospital a few weeks later is uncomfortable and unnaturally quiet. Sherlock has not said a word to anyone since being placed in a wheelchair from the hospital bed and pushed outside by a nurse. He sat through the entire ride with a completely absent look on his face. To passersby he may have appeared practically comatose. He does not care in the least. The nurse believes that the young man is upset because no one has been to visit him; she has no idea how wrong she is. To say he is unhappy would be an understatement. For someone so used to being a lone wolf, this whole ordeal is taxing not only his patience but his self-esteem as well.

The nurse helps him into the car, every one of her movements forcing him to hold back angry snarls, which in his defense he seems to hide well underneath irritated sighs and glaring. Finally, after about three hundred years, she lets him leave after sliding his crutches into the boot. His brother’s driver-who never even set foot outside the vehicle- starts the engine of the Mercedes and pulls out onto the roadway. Sherlock sighs, laying his no-longer-bandaged-but-still-aching head against the seat and tries without success to rest. He cannot decide on whether to be angry that no one actually showed up to help him or be relieved that no one was here to witness the embarrassment of being pushed out of the double doors like an invalid.

Sherlock Holmes _is not_ an invalid. He has been slowed down, yes, injured, absolutely, but an invalid? No.

It has been a long month filled with a notoriously wide variety of aches, medication and physical therapy. He no longer wears the bandages on his head or his left arm, though the heavy cast on his leg and lingering soreness in his nether regions are still a none-so-subtle reminder of the entire debacle. He emphatically _does not_ look forward to lunging about the stable yard on crutches. On top of it _all_ , it is going to literally be _months_ before he can be back in the saddle, even for training rides; and _that_ means a complete loss of income.

Sherlock takes a deep breath and forces his exhale out through his lips, noting the fact that it no longer hurts to breathe. The air causes his curly fringe to dance just above his eyebrows; at least the side of his head where they had to shave his hair to investigate his skull is growing back in. He figures he looks like some sort of lunatic half slouching against the back seat of his brother’s Mercedes, one side of his mop of curls longer than the other; face and arm covered with scabs and of course, how could he forget even for a second? This damn cast! He pounds at it with a closed fist which in turn causes some minor pain in his leg and pelvis which then just makes him even angrier. It is a vicious cycle he is growing weary of fighting; not to mention that it is making his brain feel like treacle. He forces his eyes to close and keeps them that way for the remainder of the ride.

The car stops in front of a welcoming country home; technically _their_ home, though Sherlock pretty much takes for granted that whatever is _theirs_ together is really his brother’s alone. By the time his older brother gets around to helping him get out of the car, Sherlock has cooked up a serious strop. He grabs the crutches from the driver, who has just extracted them from the boot, and then half-lunges, half-runs to the front door, ignoring the stabbing pains that seem to be every part of his body south of his belly button, leaving the car door standing wide open.

From outside, the eldest Holmes son watches his thirty-year-old teenage brother make his painful way through the door and then down a flight of stairs to his bedroom. He cannot see his sibling actually go down the steps, though with each _bang_ of the crutches against the stairs and then the slamming of another door, he has a pretty good idea what is happening. Which naturally leads to his next thought: _what kind of shitstorm are we in for_?

^=^

By the time Sherlock has worked himself down a flight of stairs and thrown himself across his bed his groin feels like it is on fire. Sweat drips from his forehead and the back of his neck. Everything around him has taken on an ashen grey hue. He wants to alternately scream and pound the walls like a toddler and then tunnel under the thick duvet and not move for several days. He settles for stripping down to his pants and huddling under the covers by rolling into them. There is no real escape from the pain, no matter the position, so he just tries not to move much whichever way his body finally comes to rest on the mattress.

So of course when his brother comes in just moments later, he finds him half naked lying on his belly with his head shoved up under an incongruously black and yellow fluffy pillow. He stares at the ceiling for a moment as if looking for strength there, heaves the heavy sigh of older siblings ‘round the world and reminds himself that patience may not be a virtue but it _will_ keep him from murdering his _injured_ baby brother and that would quite possibly keep himself out of prison for the rest of his life. He pointlessly clears his throat.

“Sherlock.” He states plainly as he steps through the door. He opens it a bit further in order that the driver can deposit Sherlock’s small bag of belongings from the back seat on the floor in front of a large wardrobe. “Thank you.” He says as the driver turns to leave, flashing his employer a beautiful smile of gratitude, his arm barely brushing against Mycroft’s as he leaves the room.

“Mycroft, I remember telling you to fuck off not so long ago, did I not?” Sherlock grumbles against the bedding. Bickering with his brother may not heal his screaming bits but at least it will help him think about something else for a little while.

“I am only here to offer you a hand if you need it. Doctor Hooper said that you would need an icepack for your injured scrot….”

Sherlock cuts him off by hurling the silly pillow backwards and with a lucky aim, directly at his sibling’s face. Mycroft deftly catches it in mid-air before it touches the tip of his nose and tosses it back. It hits the mattress with a plop and then bounces onto Sherlock’s bare back. Sherlock growls and sits up so fast that his head begins to spin. Mycroft observes closely that his brother is still in a great deal of pain, so he will let this one slide. He pretends not to see the tiny drops of water that collect in the corner of Sherlock’s eyes; he also most emphatically _does not_ see the way Sherlock’s hands tremble against the white linen as he fights to hold himself up.

“Fine. I will have your medication brought down to you shortly, along with an ice pack. If you even _think_ about giving any of the staff a harder time than we already expect you to, you will be completely on your own. I do have a business to run, therefore I do not have time to cater to someone who so _obviously_ does not want or desire my help.” Mycroft gives Sherlock a slightly sick-looking grimace that could be mistaken for a smile by anyone unfamiliar with the two of them.

Sherlock’s eyes open for just a moment and he gives his brother one single stiff nod. A groan escapes his lips before he can stop it. Mycroft steps over the threshold towards the hallway and considers turning back. No. The best thing he can do is make sure Sherlock has what he needs and stay out of his way. He knows his brother too well, and if he wants something there will be no doubt about it when the time comes.

As he wanders back up the stairs, he turns his mind towards a more acute problem: this morning he came up short a stable hand. Apparently no one had seen the young man after evening stables last night and Mycroft is not worried, exactly, but he is a little concerned.

Mycroft follows in the traditions set by his family by hiring the youth of the community when they first start out in the world. In its storied history, the Holmes family has jump started many careers: not only ‘chase riders, but also trainers, stable owners; they even name a couple of veterinarians that started out mucking stalls and cleaning water buckets for them among their alumni. As such, he carries a heavy mantle of responsibility on his shoulders concerning his employees, not to mention that he has a reputation not only as an employer but as a member of the community to uphold.

He walks towards the back of the house in order to cloister himself in his father’s study for a while. He settles into the chair and takes a large ledger book and a bottle of one hundred year old scotch from the bottom drawer. He pours a measure of the whiskey into a crystal cut glass that is left sitting on the blotter for just this purpose and takes a sip. Mycroft opens the leather-bound book and runs a finger down the page until he finds the name of the missing boy: James Singleton, age twenty-one. He follows the line across the page to an emergency telephone number and an address for his parents. He knocks back the rest of the whiskey and picks up the telephone, wondering if their father ever had to do this. His eyes scan the framed George Stubbs prints that line the walls and he frowns when no one picks up on the other end of the line. After letting it ring a dozen times, Mycroft gives it up as a bad job.

He pushes the soft leather chair far enough away from the desk in order to puts his feet up on it. He stares at the considering another nerve-calming drink while he deftly unbuttons his dark blue shirt. The cap gets replaced on the bottle and it goes back in the drawer. For the time being, the ledger will remain where it is to remind him that he needs to check further into the issue later on today. In the meantime, there is no reason not to find the one thing he believes his brother will actually ask for; right after he gets into something more comfortable.

^=^

Later that afternoon, Sherlock’s brain decides that his body needs to get up and move around; lying in his old bedroom in the silence is proving to be too boring for words. Being on crutches, he gets as far as the back porch before he does not quite plop down in one of the chairs to sit and stare out at the stables that lie just beyond the gravel driveway. The pain meds are keeping the worst of the sting of his injuries at bay, at least for the time being. He makes a wry face when he considers that Doctor Hooper was right about the ice pack, though he will never share that knowledge with anyone.

He shifts and settles a little awkwardly in the chair and attempts to take stock of his surroundings. The driveway is filled with horse vans, several cars and three or four bicycles. The horse vans belong to the estate, two of the cars to his brother, the remainder all belong to members of the house and stable staff. Being out on the circuit, he has not been home since early Spring and therefore does not yet realize that one of the bicycles has been left behind and will not be claimed later when those who do not remain on the premises take their collective leave for the night. With his mind slowed down by the medication, he has not yet even noticed his brother’s preoccupation with something other than himself. The thought never even occurs to him.

Sherlock eases his left leg into a more comfortable position, allowing the heel of the cast to rest against the wooden decking. He moves gingerly in order to keep his hips level. The leg is already beginning to itch underneath the cast and he has to fiddle with his crutches in order to keep from digging at the skin beneath the plaster. He sighs as his head rests against the padded back of the chair. He hums a little tune under his breath, thinking that maybe he will ask one of the staff to bring him his violin; if he plays it calmly no one will object.

As if on cue, the back door opens and Mycroft hands him a glass of water and a white pill. Sherlock turns stiffly in the chair to look up as his brother, only smiling with his eyes when he sees the antique case in Mycroft’s other hand. He passes the glass back to Mycroft in an odd sort of trade. Mycroft gently touches his shoulder and wordlessly leaves him alone again, headed out for his afternoon stroll through the stalls, if Sherlock’s memory serves correctly. If Mycroft is still following the same schedule he has kept for several years, the older man will actually stop and visit each equine and give them a pat. Just like their father, Mycroft has taken to carrying peppermints in his pockets which are not for himself. A real smile threatens to light up Sherlock’s face but he hides it before his brother can turn back and see it.

He rests the case on the chair next to him and extracts the violin from its velvet lining. He runs his fingers over the smooth wood as if caressing a lover then takes up the bow and begins to play softly, each note rolling away from him like faerie folk taking on their own lives as they dance and play across the grounds.

At least he can still do _this_.

^=^

A little over five thousand six hundred kilometers away, in a strange synchronicity, a man five years older than Sherlock is also sitting on a porch watching a busy stable. In his hands, however, is not a violin but a paring knife that he is systematically using to peel brown potatoes that he then drops into a bowl in the chair at his side; the peels go into a bucket that sits between his feet. He works methodically with a military-like efficiency that is born from practice.

He carefully wipes the blade against his jeans as he finishes each tuber. The whole mess will be washed and then sliced to be cooked up into a large au gratin casserole for tomorrow night’s big annual end-of-summer dinner. After the potatoes there is a large bag of white onions to be readied, as well. From where he sits, he can hear the cook bustling about the kitchen preparing the hams that she will begin baking before John even decides to think about daylight. She would absolutely never ask him to help out, but he said he would do this so that he could keep his hands busy while giving his mind a chance to consider some things.

John has been an employee and then later caretaker of the Pennsylvania branch of Holmes’ Enterprises since he was a strapping young lad intent on overtaking the racing world one jump at a time. Like Sherlock, he started backing green ‘chasers and slowly worked his way up to the early morning rides and finally breaking into actual competitions. By the time he was twenty, he was winning amateur races and enjoying _all_ of the benefits. A fleeting smile threatens to break through his pursed lips.

He stops peeling to reflect for a moment on his most bittersweet memory. His blue eyes follow the line of the horizon as the clear sky begins its nightly show of turning from blue to orange, pink, and purple to black.

The horse’s name is Ironsides Passing and John still feels the rush of the wind in his face as they approach the last jump, smartly leading the pack. His fingers are tight against the reins, giving Ironsides his head as the burly stallion pushes off with his hindquarters and launches himself into the air…the feeling of the billets between his taut thighs…the thrill of flight and the side-splitting pride in the graceful animal beneath him as they clear the jump and head into the last stretch…he is standing in the stirrups, already waiting on that moment where he could give a victory wave to the crowd…the sight of his purple silks stretching smoothly over the arm he is about to raise…smiling faces seeming close enough to touch…

Just before everything goes pear-shaped.

A big black horse is pulled up fast on Ironside’s heels, then he is beside John and for a moment they are neck and neck. John drops down and little and asks for more speed with a squeeze of his calves. With a jolt, Ironsides pours it on, his hooves pounding the track as if daring it to beg for mercy. Even in his memory John can still smell the horses' sweat and feel the pounding of the great heart under his white silk clad legs.

The black horse’s jockey looks over and meets John’s eyes and for a second there is no other sound. Suddenly, the world around them comes back in a rush and the big black horse is passing them. One rear shoe goes flying across the track. John remembers it so vividly: the way the silver metal of the racing plate gleams as it bounces against the dirt and then he is falling and falling and falling because apparently Ironsides shies and loses his footing; the only memory John actually has of his mount stumbling is like that of a phantom limb: he _knows_ it was there and sometimes it still pains him, though the physicality of it is alien; almost as though it had never existed at all. Yet the results were conclusive: he would never again back a steeplechaser except with money. After being so high, it was almost a crushing failure and it broke John's heart the way no lover ever could.

John wakes up in a hospital bed in London two days later to find that his legs have been crushed because he had been tangled up in the stirrups and not thrown free, he has at least one broken vertebrae and a shattered shoulder where he was hit by the full weight of his mount. They were exactly three strides from the finish line. He remembers clearly thinking that the stupid rhyme had been written just for him. _For want of a nail, the war was lost._ John shakes his head as if to keep the old words from running rampant through his head, this line of reasoning is foolish and he knows it well.

The Holmes family has always been kind to him. When the time came, they offered him a position at the new farm they had just purchased in the ‘states. John took it willingly, since he was no longer fit to ride, thinking that perhaps working with trotters would be the ticket. He never wanted to be far away from horses and if he could make this work, he could have a life again. So he smiled and shook Sieger’s hand broad hand, pushed his plane ticket into his back pocket and happily left the only place he ever truly felt at home, in some ways just glad to be able to walk again, allowing a new chapter in his life to be written. Until today he had no reason to ever look back.

In the past fifteen years, he had not only learned how to train and drive the trotters, he also learned how to manage the farm and it was now doing as well in terms of money as the London branch. People had come and gone, including several of John’s own romantic partners; Sieger Holmes passed away and left the London farm to his oldest son and the American branch to John, though the name on the deed for the land and everything else save for a handful of horses was actually Sherlock’s. John had seen the youngest son in passing, though the other man had been about fifteen when John was injured, so he knew virtually nothing about him save that he had been riding ‘chasers competitively for the family farm for at least ten years now, if not longer.

That is to say that John knew nothing about him until that very afternoon when he had received an air-mailed letter stating that the youngest Holmes had been injured in a steeplechase accident and might possibly be coming out to the farm in order to recuperate, once he is cleared by his doctors to travel.

John is not a stupid man and could read easily between the lines: Sherlock is being shipped out here in order to take over. It had just been a matter of time. After so long, John feels more than just a little betrayed, though some part of him realizes that if he had been doing a bad job perhaps he would have been told about it sooner; that part was currently not paying attention, however, instead choosing the path of least resistance: anger at the perceived soon-to-be-change in the status quo.

He sighs and starts in roughly on another potato. Before he notices what he is doing, he is holding just a sliver of the moist white flesh in shaking hands. He tosses the knife into the bucket with the others and walks away from the job, heading towards the stables that are so much a part of the person he knows himself to be. He will fight for this, after all this time it is all he really knows. He could stand to be a partner but he can never go back to the beginning again. No spoiled little rich kid is going to come here and run roughshod over him, not after _everything_ he had done for the Holmes family.

As he walks the fence line, brood mares look up from their grazing with their ears pointed in his direction. Seeing that he has empty pockets, they return to their meals, four and five month old foals resting in the grass at their feet. John walks silently, paying little attention to the tiny bursts of yellowish light from the fireflies that leap into the air from the ground like a big horse jumping for its life over a burning pile of brush. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am certain that you have heard it before, but the old rhyme John is thinking of goes like this: For want of a nail, the shoe was lost. For want of the shoe, the horse was lost. For want of the horse, the knight was lost. For want of a knight, the battle was lost. For want of the battle, the war was lost. 
> 
> IMO, it means that the tiniest thing detail missed can sometimes mean the difference between epic failure and epic victory.
> 
> Also-5,600 km is about 3400 miles
> 
> *13 Sept 2013: did a little tweaking on this chapter because there were some details that I felt like I missed.


	3. Meeting of the Minds

Bright and early the next morning Mycroft Holmes is in his office on the telephone. He has already begun fielding calls from James’ parents, his grandparents and several of his friends that could not be reached the day before. Not a single one of them has seen the young man since evening stables the day prior to his disappearance. Just as he hangs up on the last of the telephone calls regarding James, he receives one from a homicide detective. Mycroft sits back in his chair with the telephone cradled under his chin and resting on his shoulder and waits for the hammer to fall. He closes his eyes as he listens to the voice on the other end explain how James was brought into the A&E last night via ambulance after a tip from an anonymous caller. Mycroft rubs his forehead with his fingers, desperately searching for a way to release some of the tension he is feeling.

“Detective, may I ask where James was found?” The words are redundant as he is pretty sure he already knows the answer. Sometimes the bad apples at the bottom of one barrel affect the whole harvest.

“Mr. Holmes he was found on the floor of a tack room at your neighbor’s stable.”

“Which neighbor?”

Over the line comes the sound of papers being shifted about. After about two minutes, the detective says “White Fox Stables. We have reason to believe that his condition did not begin there, however. Look, Mr. Holmes, is there any way that I could come out and speak with you in person?”

Mycroft considers the question from every angle; since they have done nothing wrong concerning James, there is absolutely no reason why he should not entertain the detective’s questions for a while. “I will be here all day, detective.” Mycroft states in his best I’m-a-busy-man-but-I-am-making-time-for- _you_ voice.

“Thank you, Mr. Holmes. I shall be there as soon as I am able; I do not intend to take up any more of your time than necessary.” From his voice, the detective is a plain-speaking man who seems to truly be interested in the case at hand.

“You are welcome.” Mycroft says as he disconnects the call. He is thrown for a moment as he realizes he forgot to ask the detective his name. It is ridiculous for all of these things to be getting under his skin this much. He places the telephone back into its cradle and rests his elbows on the desk, his head in his hands. Without warning, the heavy blare of some arena rock band slams through the hallway and even rattles the paintings on the walls. Mycroft screws his eyes shut even tighter and reaches down into himself to a place that is set aside to be used only for dealing with Sherlock. After counting to ten twice, he stands and stalks toward the chaos that is a bored and virtually imprisoned Sherlock Holmes.

By the time he reaches Sherlock’s bedroom door, the music has grown to a ground-splitting fever pitch, even though the melody itself is rather soft. Mycroft jerks the door open, secretly enjoying the sound of the heavy brass handle slamming into the wall behind it. Sherlock is stretched out across his bed, left leg hanging of the side in a manner that certainly looks uncomfortable, considering the heavy cast. He does not sit up but merely rolls his head to face his brother at the same time turning the volume dial up on the boom-box that is sitting on his stomach and giving him a rather vexed look. Mycroft is sure he is unaware that the expression sets his face back about twenty years.

“Really, Sherlock, the violin is so much more relaxing.”Mycroft’s first inclination is to actually roar above the load music; he learned a long time ago, however, that sometimes raising his voice actually goads his brother into new heights of deviousness. He stands with one hand still on the door handle and waits.

Just as the chorus begins, Sherlock pushes the power button and they are left standing in a heavy silence. Across the room, Sherlock’s eyes narrow as he studies his brother. He sits up very slowly, trying hard not to let Mycroft see him wince. He sets the boom box on the floor and crosses his good leg over the cast, using it as a foot rest. For a moment they simply stare at each other and Sherlock is reminding strongly of their father in the days before their mother’s death.

“Mycroft.” Sherlock’s voice seems to have taken on the crispness of ice chips, making his brother realize that the pain medication must be wearing off.

“Not now, Sherlock. If you want to sit here and stew in your own juices all day that is your choice; understand that some of us have _work_ to do and I would appreciate it if you would kindly keep your music down to a reasonable level.” He crosses his arms over his chest and considers just leaving, but something in Sherlock’s expression makes him stand fast. He watches for few seconds; ah, there it is.

“One of the stable hands is missing.” Sherlock puts it out there as if they are discussing the price of alfalfa and timothy.

Mycroft knew they would get there in the end. “Yes.” He answers, wondering if his sibling even attempted to sleep last night.

Sherlock returns to his back, this time lying on the bed so that his head is pointed towards the door and his feet rest on the black and yellow pillow that does not match any of the other linens in the house. Mycroft can no longer see his face, only the top of his ridiculous head showing the mixture of short, tight ringlets and longer, more relaxed ones. Mycroft thinks about the time when Sherlock was five years old and he was almost twelve. Sherlock had snuck into a sewing basket with the result being a crooked coif much like the one in front of him. He takes two steps towards the bed with one hand outstretched as if to play with one of those springy ringlets; he is stopped cold when his grown up brother’s deep baritone rips out of his chest in a feral growl, in turn yanking him out of his reverie.

“Do not touch me.”

Sherlock never moves and Mycroft backtracks. “Do you need anything?” He asks as if to cover the awkwardness.

They both know better. “No.’’ That seems to be all of it but as Mycroft is closing the bedroom door, Sherlock says “I would like to speak to the detective myself.” Mycroft does not give him an answer, partially hoping that Sherlock will just stay down here and keep himself occupied for a few hours. Of course, he could always make a call to Dr. Hooper and explain to her how much pain his brother is in, in the hope that she might raise his dosage…on second thought, no. Maybe this is what he needs to keep him busy for a while; maybe keep his mind off of his injuries for a bit.

He quietly pulls the door until it snicks. He rubs his forehead again and looks at his watch: half past ten. Only half past ten. Mycroft turns to go back up to his office to await the detective’s arrival wondering if Sherlock is aware that _kyrie eleison_ translates to _Lord have mercy_.

^=^

Around eleven o’clock there is a knock at the front door. Mycroft has moved into the kitchen and is sitting at the table with a fresh pot of tea when the detective is shown in by the gardener who happened to be working around the side of the house when the police car pulled in. Mycroft knows his people well and he knows that when something interesting is happening, all he has to do is sit back and wait for the happening to come to him.

He gently sets out an empty cup and gestures for the detective to have a seat. As he does so, Mycroft takes his chance to size up the other man. Just a little older than himself, dark brown hair already beginning to gray out naturally, right about six feet tall and well-built, which is obvious after he shucks his black leather jacket and hangs it on the chair he has pulled out. He sits, giving Mycroft a nod to the tea and fiddles with his thin black tie.

“No need to stand on formality on my account.” Mycroft tells him as he fills his cup. He settles back down in his own chair as the detective removes his tie with an expression of gratitude in his warm brown eyes. He reaches down to pull a small brown notepad out of his trouser pocket and lays it on the table next to his cup. The tie has disappeared, most likely into that same pocket. He seems to have a second thought and reaches back down for his badge, though before he can complete the action, Mycroft says he knows he is legitimate. The detective does not question the other man, merely studies him curiously.

He thinks they that are perhaps a few years apart in age, that Mycroft may be an inch or two taller than himself and a little lighter in build. Mycroft’s skin is lightly tanned from the days spent alongside the track and there is just a spattering of ginger freckles along the bridge of his nose and across his cheeks. It is a shade or two lighter than his neatly-cut hair. Mycroft’s eyes are certainly his best feature: piercingly blue as if they can see right through layers of skin and muscles to what lies beneath. After a moment, the detective shakes it off as fast as it came on and he had to remind himself what he is actually here for.

Mycroft watches the detective with a hint of amusement. In those few seconds he could read the man’s heart; he finds it difficult to admit that he likes what he sees.

“I apologize, Detective, I do not believe I have introduced myself properly.” Mycroft reaches over the table and offers his hand. “Mycroft Holmes.” He states as the detective takes it in his own. His grip is sure and strong. Mycroft squeezes back with the exact same amount of pressure.

“Detective Gregory Lestrade.” He smiles warmly as he sips from his cup.

“Thank you, Detective.” Mycroft picks up his own cup, nimble fingers curling about the handle with a gentleness that makes Greg’s throat go dry. In order to distract himself, he picks up the notebook and flips it open to a page covered with a tiny but neat scrawl.

“How well did you know James Singleton?” He asks.

Mycroft does not think, simply answers honestly. “I did not know him well as a friend, Detective. As an employee, however, he was always on time and could be trusted. He had been here for three months and never gave me or any of the other staff any reason to doubt him. He was a slender fellow, a bit weak in the back sometimes, I had the impression that he might have had asthma or some similar ailment as sometimes after haying his charges he would cough and wheeze.”

“Aye. The young man most certainly had asthma. Apparently he had a problem with illicit narcotics as well.” Greg tells him bluntly, resting his hands on the table.

Mycroft is actually taken aback. How did he miss _that_? He is uncertain as to what to say to this detail.

“Apparently he hid it from everyone. I spoke to his parents just before I arrived here and that was the most shocking thing to them.” Greg takes another sip from his tea.

Mycroft frowns at him across the table. “Would they not be in shock already to find out that their son is dead?”

“You would think so.” Greg’s eyes meet his. They are on equal footing for that one, then.

“I assume they identified the body?” Mycroft finishes his cup and moves it aside.

“No.” When Mycroft frowns again, Greg explains. “James had his ID on him.”

“Not to be rude, Detective, but why are you here?” Mycroft pushes his chair away from the table slightly and crosses his legs.

“I am here, Mr. Holmes, because I really want to ask you…no, scratch that. I _need_ to ask you some questions about the people who own White Fox Stables.”

“Alright.”

“First let me explain that James had a broken nose, a broken cheek bone and a severely lacerated scalp when he was brought into the A&E. Hell, the poor boy’s face was simply busted. His fingers were covered with cuts and scrapes where he had tried to defend himself, however, it is quite possible that there was more than a single assailant because there are nasty bruises on his shoulders from where he was apparently held in place. His torso is a roadmap of contusions and cuts. Whoever did this worked this kid over well. They were professional, without a doubt.” Greg finishes his own tea before he continues.

“Let me be frank with you, Mr. Holmes.”

“Mycroft, please.” Mycroft does not say, _you already are_ , because some people would consider it to be rude to read them that way.

“Mycroft, then; I think that James was killed as an example.”

Mycroft ponders Greg’s words. Just as he opens his mouth to ask his own questions, there is the sound of heavy thuds as Sherlock storms into the kitchen, somehow managing to look dramatic in gym bottoms, an old blue robe and leaning on crutches. He has hitched the left leg of the bottoms up over the cast as if to make sure everyone around takes notice of it—as if it could be missed. He seems to be taking great pains in keeping it clean: the plaster is so white it almost glows, even after all this time.  

Sherlock pulls out the chair at the head of the table and sits down. Mycroft notes that his brother’s movements have improved even over the day before. He fights the urge to ask him if he has an icepack shoved into the crotch of his trousers; maybe later. Sherlock leans towards the detective on his elbows, studying the older man intently. Mycroft does not ask as he stands up to get another cup from the cabinet. He pours Sherlock’s tea and sets it down in front of him. He is just getting back to his chair when Sherlock finally decides to speak.

“Tell him about the other one.” He says to the detective without preamble. “And to answer _your_ question, Mycroft, no.”

“How did you…?” It is Greg’s turn to narrow his eyes and regard the newcomer shrewdly.

At the end of the table, Sherlock huffs an impatient sigh. “Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft’s younger brother.” He mutters quickly as if the meaningless words taste like overcooked filet mignon in his mouth. He makes a weak gesture with his hand between Mycroft and himself then turns his attention back to the detective. There seems to be an unspoken _whatever_ there that Mycroft is glad Sherlock does not say.

Greg finds himself stupidly looking between the two men. Where Mycroft eyes are warm and inviting, Sherlock’s are cold and distant, his green irises intent on taking knowledge from Greg whether he wishes to give it or not. Being not an unintelligent man, he gives Sherlock a straightforward answer.

“Another young man was brought into the A&E a little over a month ago.”

“Yes, yes, right about the time I was waking up to a most irritating situation.” Sherlock mumbles as if it will hurry the conversation along.

“Sherlock.” Sometimes Mycroft hates the nagging sound of his own voice, though he refuses to be rude to his guest.

Sherlock’s mouth snaps shut. He really wants to hear the detective prove him right, and it will also make Mycroft shut his own pie hole. They stare at each other for a few seconds as if waging their own cold war then both turn back to Greg at the same time.

Like any other normal human being when faced with the uniqueness that is the Holmes brothers, Greg’s train of thought is completely derailed for a bit. He looks from one man to the other, grabs his cup only to realize it is empty when he brings to his mouth, sets it back down and then realizes there is absolutely nothing that is going to get him out of this situation  that _he_ is supposed to be in control of until he tells the story. He blinks at them, decides they are most likely not going to kill him and carve him up for dinner and gets on with it.

“The young man who was brought into the A&E a month ago had similar wounds and was also a drug addict. His face was bruised but not so badly that he was unrecognizable. Had James not had his ID with him, it is possible that not even his mother may have known who he was. This first youth is thought to have also been a stable hand, he was also found discarded in the tack room of the White Fox Stables, and to top it all off, no one has any idea who he was. He was buried as a John Doe.”

Greg sits back as he finishes his story, waiting on the inevitable questions. He is surprised to find that they do not come. Sherlock seems to be in his own world and Mycroft is just looking at him.

Mycroft gazes at Greg, wondering how much the detective knows about his neighbors. Mycroft himself is aware of several rumors circulating about the place, though none of them have been easy to check out due to the nature of the business’s proprietors. He finally settles on erring on the side of honesty, just as the detective had done.

“Detective Lestrade, do you know anything about James Theodore Moriarty?” Mycroft asks, lacing his hands together on the tabletop. He does not have to turn his head towards Sherlock to feel the younger man’s tension at the mention of the name. In Mycroft’s mind, this whole scenario is going to be like a bandage: it is going to be a bloody painful clusterfuck of a  job until it is uncovered, but once the wound airs out a little, it can be cleaned and begin to heal.

^=^

At his own kitchen table, John Watson throws the sporting section of this morning’s newspaper aside in disgust. Football, football, football. The racing section has shrunk so much that unless the Kentucky Derby is on it seems like no one even remembers that there is more to horse racing that the flat. He finishes his tea and munches on a blueberry scone provided by the cook. After a few bites he decides that sitting around acting like a crotchety old man is getting him nowhere. He changes clothes in his bedroom, sitting on the edge of the bed in order to lace up his boots. There really is not much to do today as everyone is starting to settle into the autumn routines of cleaning tack, washing racing bikes and putting up hay. Staff is down to the minimum needed for feeding and cleaning stalls as many of the horses will be out on pasture rest for a while.

He pulls a light jacket from the closet in the mud room and swings it about his shoulders. As he tucks his hands into the pockets his fingers brush up against a stiff piece of paper. He pulls it out to see that it is a year old theatre ticket. He smiles a little remembering how much he enjoyed _The Temple of Doom_ , though the woman he took with him was not into it at all. He tries to remember her name: Mary? Marjorie? No, it was Meghan. She was nice enough, polite even, and being a vet he thought maybe they would have some chemistry, but no luck.

John is at the barns before he has even noticed he left the house. He shrugs it off and continues reminiscing as he peeks into an empty stall to see that it has been cleaned. Everything looks good: water buckets have been scrubbed and topped off, the bedding picked through and turned over. He continues down the aisle, checking each stall. After Meghan he went out a few times with a man named Andrew. Again, a nice enough fellow but something was missing. Andrew seemed more interested in well, Andrew, than anything else. Sitting through _Beverly Hills Cop_ with him was fun. On their third outing, things seemed to be heating up until Andrew’s long-time boyfriend Brad had shown up and pretty much carried Andrew off cave-man style.

John steps into the tack room and admires the thoroughly scrubbed harnesses hanging from hooks in the ceiling. He is quite proud of his staff and glad to be able to give them a send-off party. Tonight they are going to do something different and hire a DJ; he hopes the weather will stay clear so that everyone will enjoy some dancing. John thinks about watching everyone dance and comes to the realization that he has not had a date in a year: he has not had any type of sex in even longer than that. Maybe that’s his entire problem, maybe he is just lonely. He makes his way to the stable office where the trophy case is filled to the brim with cups, ribbons and photographs. Winning used to mean so much to him—now a good year is one where they finish in the black and no one, horse or human gets seriously hurt. Of course, working with big animals there will always be injuries.

With that thought, the letter from England jumps back to the forefront of his mind. He keeps trying to consider it logically, especially given the trophy case he was just staring into, but the feeling that his world is about to be rocked upside down is not going away. He considers that he can just let it go until the youngest Holmes appears on his doorstep and enjoy tonight’s party or he can keep worrying about it and not have any fun. He chastises himself a little for that: no reason to ruin everyone else’s fun when it will only be him getting sacked or demoted or just whatever he wants to use to name it. Better to call it what it is: replaced.

John finds himself back at the house which is starting to smell fabulous. He pokes his head around the corner to the kitchen and sees that Mrs. B has a helper for the day and leaves them in peace. He meanders towards the living room and picks the television remote off of one of the side tables as he drops into his leather recliner. He flips the television on and finds himself watching some awful war movie that is so unrealistic its just stupid.

When the telephone rings, he snaps the idiot box off and rushes towards it. Mrs. B meets him at the entrance to the kitchen with a look that says if he as much as pokes at one of her dishes he’s a dead man and he gives her a smile. He talks on the telephone for a few moments. Mrs. B hands him a list of supplies they need for the party and he happily leaves the house to drive into town, in a much better frame of mind now than he was earlier.  

^=^

A few hours later, the party is in full swing. Current and former employees and their families have all come together to celebrate another successful racing year. John makes his rounds through the crowd, occasionally even sampling some of the spread that Mrs. B has laid out for them. The DJ seems to be a smashing success as everyone from the oldest to the youngest has approached him and made requests. There are several couples and even a group of young women on the dance floor.

The big double doors of the largest barn are open to the cooling air. The moon seems to be slowly marking time until its big debut later tonight. There are no horses in this barn right now and the big arena has been turned into party central. Several long tables line the walls, each one with seating for ten people. The DJ is at the farthest end of the room, easily visible amidst his pumping beats and Chinese lanterns. John finds himself hanging back from the festivities this year, just watching everyone and happy to be able to share this with them: after all they do the majority of the work. He gets a glass of red wine from one of the tables and gives Mrs. B a thumbs up. She smiles back, waving at him. He finally sits down at the farthest table in the corner and his eye is caught by a woman and a man as they begin to slow dance. The woman is about five foot three, the man about five inches taller. His hair is platinum blonde and stands up in a fashionable mess. From where he sits John can see that the man is wearing almost as much eyeliner as the woman he is dancing with. The woman he recognizes from long ago and is surprised to see her here. She suddenly catches sight of him and has a brief conversation with her partner who nods and moves towards the drinks table. She flounces in his direction, her hair bobbing about as if it is bouncing off of her shoulder pads.

“Linda?” He asks quietly as she engulfs him in an awkward hug. He returns it with a pat to her back. She pulls away and sits down beside him.

“How have you been, John? It has been an awfully long time.”

Linda Posito had been working for the Holmes family when John first stepped into his position as farm manager here. She had left not long after to get married and start a family, deciding that harness racing and raising babies was not compatible.

“I am doing well, I guess.” John sips from his wine glass.

Linda regards him with that look that John takes to mean I-am-woman-and-you-are-an-idiot. Right then and there, he remembers why dating men is always easier: they tend to ignore the emotional crap. He gives her a half-hearted smile.

“Still single?” She asks, getting right to the point.

“Yes.” John finds everything in the room more interesting than this conversation. Of course, even more interesting and troubling than that is the sound of a gunshot that seems to plummet through the air, bringing the boisterous party to a complete stand still. “It was nice seeing you again, Linda.” John barks out as he begins moving towards the sound. He points at two of the larger-built stable hands as he cuts through the crowd. They soon catch up with him and they all step into the darkened aisle.

Down from where they step out of the light and into the darkness is a line of stalls. The one at the very end  is lit up from the bulb hanging from the ceiling. As they close in on it, John can see a figure slumped against the wooden wall. He stops and turns towards the stable hands. “Jeff you and Mark please go and phone the police. I will handle this.” The two young men nod and rush off the way they came. Instinctively John reaches behind him for a weapon he has not carried in many years. He comes up empty handed and approaches the stall carefully. The acrid smell of gun powder weaves its thick chains around him. He opens the dutch door and leans over the bottom half to look into the stall to see a woman slumped on the clean bedding. There is blood and bits of things John prefers not to think about at this moment on the wall behind her. He yanks open the door and drops to his knees beside her. As he lifts her head there is no doubt that she is beyond help. He searches the floor for a gun and finds nothing. When the police finally arrive, the smell of gun powder is beginning to dissipate and as he tells them the story of what happened, he notices that it is all but gone.

It takes two hours from the time the police arrive until John finds himself in his bed. No one at the party had ever seen the woman before; she was literally nameless and faceless. As John finally slips into a fitful sleep he wonders if she did not pick a really bad time to wind up dead at this particular location.


	4. Shadows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He lets out an ear-splitting moan that reverberates off the tiled walls as his orgasm washes over him, like a lion roaring in a cave. He forces the other person’s head even farther under the water until the person begins thrashing about. A blinding white ice cold smirk seems to freeze the hazy air in the pool room when James finally allows his companion out of the water, never spilling a drop of his drink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very bad guy alert: consider yourself warned. This is just the tip of the iceberg.

**D** etective Lestrade listens intently to Sherlock’s theories about James Singleton and the body from several weeks ago, then had promptly left and then turned around and came back to the house with a small stack of files. It was odd to be working with someone so far out of the loop. Greg is nothing else if not a resourceful man who could spot a diamond in the rough from miles away, so whatever it was going to take to get justice for these two victims he is willing to do it, including showing the evidence to this rather sharp man.

“Sherlock, have you ever thought about maybe changing your line of work?” He asks pleasantly over the top of a steaming cuppa. Sherlock looks up from the photographs he is studying and frowns at him, tilting his head a little to the side as if to hear him better. “No.” He answers then goes right back to what he was doing as if he had not been interrupted, slowly reaching under the table to rub at his leg. Greg can hear his fingernails scraping the plaster and starts to say _maybe that isn’t a good idea_ when something happens that takes his mind off of it completely.

Mycroft walks into the kitchen wearing a black long-sleeved T-shirt and dusting off his tight blue jeans with his hands. Greg’s mouth hangs open in a rather undignified manner because the sight of a certain part of the Holmes anatomy in _those_ jeans makes his brain go to mush and he forgets the next thing he was going to say to what’s-his-face down at the other end of the table. He does notice that sly little look going on underneath a head full of insane curls as those green eyes move between the detective and his brother. When he finally snaps back into reality, Greg holds up a hand in Sherlock’s direction that Mycroft does not see because Mycroft is washing his hands in the sink. He raises his eyebrows in an attempt to make an unspoken _please._ Greg knows full well that Sherlock has caught on and hopes beyond hope that little brother will keep his yap shut to big brother. He has never been one to move quickly in any of his relationships, and he barely even knows the man; if Sherlock were to point out his attraction now, it might doom anything budding between them before it ever starts.

The kitchen telephone rings, breaking the stillness of the uncomfortable situation. Mycroft stops midway between the table and the annoying appliance then finally answers it on the fifth ring. Greg feels like he has dodged a bullet, this time.

^=^

White Fox Stables is a vast holding of barns, practice tracks, a large manor house and several cabins spread about the place. There are several branches of the business throughout the UK, two in the US and one in Brazil. The Moriarty family has been raising top-class Thoroughbred sprinters and ‘chasers for three generations and the current reigning king of the clan is James Theodore Moriarity: thirty-three year old player and race-horse trainer extraordinaire. James’ brooding good looks have graced every magazine from _Time_ to _The Chronicle of the Horse_. Dozens of cups and ribbons decorate his study, everything from flat racing to dressage, show jumping, and polo. He makes his rounds in VIP rooms, celebratory parties and formal dinners often with some striking eye candy of either gender on his arm; his flavor du jour usually the rising star of the moment.

Two years ago for a six month period that rising star had been Sherlock Holmes.

At this moment, said playboy is stretched out completely naked in a Jacuzzi in his indoor pool room with a glass of Perrier in one hand. The other hand happens to be on the top of the magenta-colored head of the person otherwise engaged between his legs. James’ eyes are closed and his head is resting on the padded side of the hot tub. The water is sloshing over the sides from more than just the powerful jets, foamy rivulets running across the coral-colored tile that lines the floor. His shaded mahogany hair is plastered to his forehead with the sweat pouring down his body and his black eye liner is beginning to smear down his cheeks like oily tears.

He lets out an ear-splitting moan that reverberates off the tiled walls as his orgasm washes over him, like a lion roaring in a cave. He forces the other person’s head even farther under the water until the person begins thrashing about. A blinding white ice cold smirk seems to freeze the hazy air in the pool room when James finally allows his companion out of the water, never spilling a drop of his drink.

The girl sits up gasping for breath. Her short pink hair had been painstakingly styled prior to her meeting with Moriarity this morning. Her carefully applied red lipstick and bright blue eye shadow is smeared from one side of her face to the other. Her brown eyes are glassy above purple streaks; she seems very far away. James reaches out and gently cups her cheek with the hand not holding the glass then just as quickly changes tactics and throws the mostly full glass right into her face. She is so far gone that she does not even register the treatment. In the end, the blowjob and the degradation are simply a means to an end. Somewhere in the back of her mind that still possesses a shred of dignity, she holds on to the fact of the very large bag of cocaine that is with her clothes.

“You fucking chicken head, Vanessa. Get out of my sight. You have one hour to get your ugly face cleaned up off the property…or I will set my _dog_ on you.” The last four words are sung in a high, childlike voice incongruous with the predatory expression on his clean-shaven face. Vanessa stands up and when she turns around James slaps her naked ass with an open hand, actually laughing when he sees the bright red hand print he has left on her pale white skin. He watches her walk away with a nasty gleam in his dark eyes. He studies his manicured nails and long, nimble fingers as they lie against the marble of the tub.

James gets out of the Jacuzzi and crosses the floor to the towel rack, grabbing one of the huge white towels and slinging it about his hips. He knocks three times on the door before opening it to be met by his butler, an old man named Mick. Mick respectfully averts his eyes from his employer’s nakedness as he hands him a fresh glass of blood-red wine. James says nothing as he saunters towards his bedroom leaving wet footprints that will remain in stark contrast to the plush white carpet long after he is dressed and gone for the day. Mick glares at the carpet as he picks up the gold telephone on the wall to call for the maid.

^=^

By the time John reaches Mycroft on the telephone, he is calm enough to speak coherently about the tragedy from the night before. He paces the tiny stable office with the cordless telephone resting on his shoulder, using his hands to mark important points.

“I apologize, Mr. Holmes.” John says as he finishes his tale. Silence stretches out between the two men and John waits for the axe to fall.

He will wait in vain, however, because Mycroft now has two bodies plus a similar case on his hands to contend with. He does not tell John about the two young men, instead he asks a question. “Do you need any help out there, John?”

John is taken aback; he actually has to recover his voice. “I…” he squeaks. He shuts his mouth and drops into his chair causing little puffs of barn dust to fly up from the cracked leather. One last horse fly buzzes against the yellow light affixed to the ceiling. He takes a deep breath and is more successful this time. “No, sir, I do not think so at the moment. The woman has not been identified yet. I asked around here and no one had any idea who she could have been.”John finds it fascinating that after all this time on those rare occasions when he actually speaks to Mycroft on the phone that his own accent seems to come through easily. Anyone unfamiliar with the English branch of the business would be very surprised to hear John.

“That is fine, John, no one will blame you.” After a pause, Mycroft continues. “I assume you received my letter?”

“Yes, sir.” John closes his eyes against the tide of unjust anger that threatens to take full control of him.

“Fine, then. Carry on.”

“I will.” John answers. He places the telephone back in its cradle gently, still a little shaken from the whole ordeal; he wishes Mycroft would not have brought up the damn letter, not now. Of course if they still want to get rid of him, they have plenty of reason to do so, he thinks.

^=^

Mycroft hangs the handset back on the wall and sits down across from the detective. It has been a while since he has felt so unsettled so he keeps to himself for a while to let his thoughts fall into some type of order. He blocks out the words but not the sounds of Greg’s and Sherlock’s voice, bass and tenor threads of sound that Mycroft simply lets wash over him while he considers the issues now facing his business and his family.

When he finally does speak, the entire house goes silent. Greg turns to him and Mycroft tries desperately not to notice his eyes. Sherlock does not look at his brother, though Mycroft can tell from the younger man’s stillness that he is listening despite himself.

“Detective, a woman was found dead in one of the stalls at our farm in Pennsylvania last night. We will be unable to obtain a full report for several days, but I believe you should be aware of this fact.”Mycroft delivers his news in a flat monotone.

“Mycroft, answer me truthfully please. Would this Moriarity bloke have any reason to be targeting you?” Greg does notice Mycroft’s eyes at this point and does not look away.

Sherlock looks up sharply from his seat. He pushes the chair backward and clambers noisly to his feet, making sure to drag the heel of his cast across the wooden floor. The horrible dragging sound only causes Mycroft to twitch an eyebrow in his direction. Sherlock grabs at his crutches, knocking one down on the floor. He leans on the other, unable to reach the first one.

Greg grabs for the crutch and hands it up to Sherlock, completely caught off guard by the furious look on his face. “What…” he starts to ask but his words are cut off when Sherlock practically spins on his plaster heel and thumps angrily out of the kitchen.

Greg turns helplessly back to the Holmes brother that he really wants to look at. He scratches the back of his neck and feels like he’s been dropped into a river without even so much as a raincoat and Wellies.

“Detective, Greg, could we speak in confidence for a while?” Mycroft asks as he listens to Sherlock thump and bump towards the back door.

“Absolutely.” Greg folds his notepad back together and shoves it back into his pocket. “Mind if I smoke?” He is already reaching into his jacket to pull out a pack of cigarettes. Mycroft does not answer but goes into a cupboard over the sink and returns with an ashtray that matches the crystal-cut glass sitting on his desk. Greg pats the pack on his arm then deftly removes one of the sticks. He holds the pack out to Mycroft who accepts one. Surprisingly, a shiny silver Zippo appears from one of Mycroft’s pockets and he offers a light to the detective. They smoke in silence until they have both finished one and then Mycroft starts talking.


	5. Another Man's Shoes

A few weeks later, Sherlock stands at the rail of the practice track at his family’s farm in Pennsylvania. It is where he seems to have followed his feet after being picked up in a car at the airport. He hates the airport with all of its noise and its crowds; as bad here as at home. Now the crisp breeze plays around him like a puppy begging for attention and he draws his jacket tighter around his thin frame. His leg is starting to ache, the cast having been removed a few days prior to his flight. The cool air is not doing it any favors. He inhales with a sigh, smelling alfalfa hay, horses, decaying leaves and the rather damp smell of the dirt on the track. He folds his gloved fingers together and begins to check out his surroundings.

As Sherlock’s body is healing, his mind is, too: details slowing regaining color. He looks around himself and takes in the three shades of green grass, the scarlet, vermillion and saffron colors of the autumn leaves on the trees that surround the slightly rolling hills of the land: quiet sentinels beyond the track at the boundary of the land. Everything is bright, the sky is virtually cloudless with a blue so deep that one could almost swim in it.

Out on the far side of the track, a horse is pulling a white sulky and his action is kicking up small clumps of dirt that spray from his hooves. Sherlock can barely make out the white plastic wheels of the little vehicle called a “bike” for all the dirt clods flying beneath it, the spokes of the wheels are a blur. The driver has the horse circling the track the “wrong way,” so obviously it is someone out for exercise. Some things are no different when it comes to horse racing, regardless of whether there are petite saddles or harnesses involved. He leans heavily against the wooden fence, mindful of still-achy ribs and nudges the small suitcase he dropped at his feet closer to it.

The horse and driver are pulling up near him, the horse in an easy jog rather than a full-out racing gait. They draw up next to the fence at a walk, the big bay gelding snorting a little and mouthing his bit; every movement jingling the hardware of his light weight training harness. Sherlock has chosen to stand right next to the gate, though he is unsure as to whether it was by design or accident. The horse stretches his neck and blows through his nostrils one last time before coming to a halt, shaking his head so that his black mane flops a little on his muscular crest. His breathing is a steady rhythm, not overworked in the least. The driver sits still in the sulky, feet in the stirrups, the horse’s tail tucked under their seat. It is almost as if the driver is checking out this new person they have found in their midst this autumn morning. Finally, they dismount, carefully pulling the long leather reins around the horse’s head. The horse reaches out with his muzzle and gently lips at the driver’s arm. There is a soft giggle from under the driver’s slightly too large helmet as hands bat the tickly horse lips away.

Sherlock sizes up the driver as gloved hands remove the helmet. The dusty face that is turned towards him is a young blonde female with a spattering of faint red freckles. Her eyes are a clear crystal blue that for a second Sherlock is sure he has seen before, even somewhere in passing. She gives him a hint of a shy smile as he takes in her pale pink off-the-shoulder T-shirt and indigo skinny jeans. She shuffles and gently stomps her dusty boots, feeling a bit put off by the stranger’s scrutiny. She turns away from him just long enough to drop her helmet onto the bike seat.

Keeping the reins in her left hand, she offers him the right one to shake. He ignores it. She steps back to unhitch the horse from the bike, the buckles on the harness marking the time with brassy chimes as she tosses them over the horse’s back to prevent them from dragging the ground. Tiny sunbursts of white dance in the air as the brasses catch the sunlight. His attention thus drawn to it, Sherlock can see that even though the tack is old, it is well-cared for and still in serviceable condition.

“A little uptight, aren’t we?” She says with the last word bubbling out of her in a giggle in the way that only teenage females can do. Her accent is a strange mix of East Coast American with just a hint of English spice.  She pats the horse’s neck and rests her arms on the top of the gate, seeming to the entire world to be relaxed and satisfied with herself. She eyes him carefully, another smile playing on her lips.

Sherlock frowns at her, completely unsure of what to say.

“I am Sherlock Holmes, I am expected.” She gives him another smile and her eyes light up at the accented timbre of his voice that is somehow mysterious and familiar at the same time. Her cheeks flush pink. He decides right then and there to talk to her as little as possible if she is going to react in this manner every time he opens his mouth; not that he needs much persuasion anyway.

“Sure, follow me then.” She pushes the gate open to lead the horse through, the reins gripped in her left hand. Sherlock examines the latch, considering closing it when he is stopped by the girl calling out to him. “Just leave it, I’m not done yet.” He follows her towards the stables after a brief stop next to the fence to pick up his suitcase.

The walk towards the barns is not long, merely down a well-worn trail that leads around to the off-side of the track and down a small rise. The grass on either side of the trail is still green and thick. The stable yard opens up in front of them, not as busy today as it had been a month ago with only a few racing weekends left in the season. He did not have much else to do on the long plane ride other than read, so he has learned a few things about this other half of Holmes Enterprises.

Sherlock takes in the rows of fencing that enclose several long paddocks and the animals within them. From what he can see, the horses are healthy; shiny coats and bright eyes follow him with avid interest as he follows the girl. She stops to speak with and hand over the reins of her charge to a rather sturdily built young man who smiles at the newcomer and introduces himself as Mark Turner. Sherlock does not shake his hand, only gives him a nod. Mark does not seem offended as he leads the horse away from them, though that fact matters very little to Sherlock.

The girl finally tears her eyes away from the part of Mark that is walking away from them and gives Sherlock a rather guilty expression then looks surprised to see that Sherlock is still standing there. She grins widely then and covers it with her hand and gestures for him to follow her. Sherlock sighs, switching the suitcase to his other hand. Exactly what else did she think he was going to do?

She opens a normal-sized door next to the two large double doors that lead into the heart of the biggest of the barns around the yard. They follow a small corridor that has three other doors off of it: a pair of restrooms and then an office. The girl raps her knuckles against the wood then pushes into the room when a muffled voice calls “come in.”

Sherlock hangs back a little as the man embraces the young woman. “Good morning, sunshine.” He says to her, wiping a smudge of dirt off of her cheek with his thumb. She giggles at him; Sherlock notices that she is about an inch taller than he is and that they share the same eyes and nose. “Good morning to you too, daddy. It is good to be back here.” He holds her at arm’s length and studies her face. “You were out with Artistic Tradewinds this morning, how did he do?” The girl gives him a nod. “I wasn’t really paying attention to time, daddy, but he was good all around. That limp that Mark told me about is hardly noticeable now. Like, I know he’s getting up there a bit, though I bet he’ll be good for one more season.” The man nods, obviously satisfied by the girl’s answer.

Finally, she turns in his direction. “Daddy, this gentleman says he is expected.” The man’s genuine smile of affection drops from his lips and seems to shatter against the floor. The girl looks between them with some hesitation, wondering what she has done wrong.

“Thanks, Tracy, it is fine. Will you do my rounds for me today?” John speaks to his daughter but does not take his eyes off of who he still believes to be the usurper.

“Sure, daddy. I’m going to take Maine Art out later, too. Okay?” She gives him a peck on the cheek and takes her exit gracefully, her ponytail swinging as she walks past, taking all of the warmth out of the dimly lit room as she goes.

John stands his ground and crosses his arms across his chest. He leans against the big metal desk just slightly with his chin tilted upward. Sherlock only partially understands the defensive mechanisms at work here and it takes him a scant few seconds to work out the reasoning behind it. He says nothing, however, preferring to let the silence weigh between them in order to take a closer look at this man whom his brother said was named John Watson.

He is approximately five foot seven inches tall, a few years older than Sherlock. His hair is the wheat color of natural blonde that is already beginning to streak with gray. Sherlock narrows his eyes at the man regarding him coldly and waits.

“I am not sure what I have done wrong; Mr. Holmes, but I assure you that I can make it right.” John says defensively, his eyes glittering with half-controlled anger.

“I assure you, Mr. Watson, that I have no idea what you are talking about.” Sherlock absolutely refuses to budge from his position in the doorway. He speaks quietly, concisely, only partially aware that he is attempting to soften his thick accent. He sets the suitcase down and it makes a solid thud against the wooden floor. His hands go right into the pockets of his jacket to hide the fact that he has no idea what to do with them. He refuses to think about how the cold air is actually making them sore.

It takes a moment for his words to sink into John’s brain, which comes pretty close to short-circuiting when he is almost overwhelmed by relief that suddenly turns back to irritation. “Then why are you here?”

“You received my brother’s letter, I assume?” Sherlock asks; his voice again barely above a whisper.

“Yes.” John refuses to add _sir_ to the end of his statement.

Sherlock finally steps into the room out of the shadowy hallway, allowing himself to tower over the shorter man because he is tired, his leg is throbbing and this entire line of conversation is ridiculous. The single square of light from the small window in the wall catty-corner to John’s desk  lights up Sherlock’s face causing his peridot eyes to flash with his ire.

By stepping closer to him, Sherlock forces John’s head up even higher in order to meet his eyes. John takes the power play for what it is and instead of backtracking, actually steps even closer. There is a scant few inches between them now: Sherlock craning his neck downward and John stretches his upward. Sherlock breaks the ice, his voice a blast of heat between them.

“Do you have reason to believe my brother would lie to you, Mr. Watson?”

It is a very odd thing that happens between them: right on the tail end of John’s irritation and surprise that _voice_ sends him back in time fifteen years and makes John feel like he’s _home_.


	6. Resurrected Memories

“Do you have any idea how much you sound like your father?” John asks in a whisper. In that instant he is taken back to the day he agreed to pick up his life and move; then even farther: to the day when it all began. John slumps against the desk and allows his mind to wander backward in time to the day he met Sieger Holmes for the first time as he stares deeply into emerald irises so much like a man who gave John a new lease on life so long ago.

John is halfway through his nineteenth year and has just found out his girlfriend is pregnant. He has no desire to go to University and the Army seems an even worse choice. Tricia’s parents are angry at both of them and pretty much give her walking papers, making it clear that unless John is out of her life she is no longer welcome to stay. The word _bastard_ gets tossed about a bit and John is unsure if they are referring to the child or to himself. As if it only took one of them to make the baby!

John’s parents agree to let them move into their house--for a short time. It has only been a week and the tension between them all is palpable. John secretly wishes that his younger sister was still home, for nothing else other than to feel like he has some back up against their parents. He and Trish made a mistake but they are willing to grow up and do what it takes to become a family. They even set a wedding date a few months down the road and John takes to pounding the pavements in an effort to find a job in order to take care of all of them.

He has been out scouring the area for some type of gainful employment for several days when he finds himself parked on a bar stool in some unnamable pub. He has his last few pounds in his pocket which should be enough to cover the pint he is currently nursing and maybe another one. The barkeep took one look at him and served up the beer; he knows he looks older than his years with his tired eyes and scruffy face with a hint of what will someday be a wheat-colored mustache starting over his upper lip. The job offers have rapidly declined as soon as John tells them the reason he is seeking employment: it seems the unspoken title of _irresponsible_ is following him like a bright red beacon.

He knows that he has got to do something, though. He wonders how long it is going to be until the tension at home snaps like a rubber band and he and Tricia, and their unborn child, find themselves out on the streets…or she decides that it is all too much and goes back to her parents sans John.

John is lost in his reverie; head resting on his arms, shaggy blonde hair brushing the slick, shiny mahogany bar when he hears the joyous voices of several men enter the pub. There is laughter and a much slapping of backs and shoulders and then John proceeds to ignore the whole thing, hearing only the words “ _Winner’s Circle_ and _fifteen thousand_ _pounds_ ” before he shuts the noise out, preferring to remain isolated in his own little world of the bar and the stool he is perched on.

At least he is able to ignore them until a tall, broad-shouldered man with neat hair that curls against the collar of his hunter green polo shirt stands up and begins speaking. John remembers thinking that head of hair was as dark and glossy as a slick of oil floating on a puddle of water. Everyone in the pub (all ten customers spread about the place at various tables and at the bar, plus the neat man’s little group of five people that includes a young man that appears to be the taller man’s son, only his hair is a dark ginger) turns their collective attention towards the booming baritone voice of the man, many of the people John assumes are regulars giving him a smile. John pays absolutely no attention to the words coming out of his mouth and only remembers thinking that the man is celebrating quite the win from the day’s steeplechase card. He thinks to himself that no matter what happens he will remember the character of that voice for the rest of his life. It will always stand out to him as a _beginning_.

Things get even better as the big man begins buying rounds, including all of the pub’s patrons in his unreserved actions. Then the laughter starts. John turns back to face the jovial group to notice the tall man pulling up the younger ginger by one hand then hugging him and slapping him on the back. The young man leans against the taller one, one arm around his waist. Together they hoist their pints and call out congratulations to one another. John notes the purple and white racing silks the young man is wearing with what must be a stirring of jealousy in his chest. He promptly puts it back into its cage, considering he is benefitting from their happiness as much as everyone else in the place.

After that, the evening is a blur. John has lost count of the pints he had drunk and wearily slaps his last five pounds on the bar as he makes to stand up from his stool. The world lurches and he staggers forwards, his face just missing the edge of the bar as he slams to the wooden floor.

When he comes to, he finds himself lying on something cool and hard with something wet on his forehead. When he opens his eyes he is staring into a pair of calm sea green eyes bordered by soft laugh lines. John’s world spins again and the man rests one hand on his shoulder, effectively grounding him. After a time, John looks around again notes that he is lying on a bench outside the pub. He sits up slowly, remembering the entire reason he only rarely touches alcohol of any type: when one has a tendency to just keep belting them back, it is foolish to even start in the first place. He takes the wet cloth off of his forehead and sets it against the bench with a wet plop.

The hand on his shoulder is reassuring, strong, almost as if he is a skittish colt that is going to panic and hurt himself trying to get away. He steadies himself against the broad warm palm and takes in the man in front of him. A small smile appears on the man’s face and he stands to receive a tepid glass of water from the ginger haired young man John noticed earlier. He holds it out to John who sips it cautiously.

The tall man takes his hand off of John’s shoulder and offers it to him to shake. John shakes and gives him a wan smile of gratitude.

“Sieger Holmes.” The tall man says as if his name carries the meaning of life.

“John Watson.” John offers.

“John may I say that I have been watching you since my son and I came in with our little party.” Sieger gestures towards the red-haired man who nods with solemn sincerity in John’s direction. John nods back.

“Mycroft.” The young man says, though he just stands beside his father looking uncomfortable in his shiny clothes.

“John, it looks as if you are looking for gainful employment. May I say that a young man in your current _situation_ will find it necessary in the near future to be making decent money in order to take care of _things_?”

Sieger is nothing if not straightforward, John thinks. He is completely gobsmacked as he casts about his sluggish brain for something intelligent to say. Finding nothing he remains silent.

“Tell me, John” Sieger pushes between John’s shoulder blades, guiding him off of the bench and towards the parking lot as he talks “have you ever ridden a horse?”

^=^

“John?” John blinks himself back into the moment and discovers he has been staring at a point on the wall just beyond Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock clears his throat. “Mister Watson?”

John shakes his head, considerably thrown for a loop by the way he has reacted to this entire situation. A situation he needed to have dealt with quickly. Sherlock has stepped backwards a pace and is regarding John with an expression that seems to be flipping between curious and wonder that the manager of the farm is not a little short in the marbles department.

“You asked me if I know how much I sound like my father.” Sherlock’s voice is once again toned down. John cannot help but be secretly amazed that the other man is capable of such a feat.

“Yes. Yes, I did.” John closes his eyes as he scratches at the back of his head. He moves around the desk to sit in his chair, gesturing at the chair in front of it for Sherlock to sit down. Sherlock remains standing. John shrugs his shoulders and proceeds to make himself comfortable anyway. He learned a long time ago that it is impossible to force good manners on anyone.

“I also asked you what your purpose is here, Mister Holmes.” He cannot control the emphasis he puts on the word _purpose_.

Sherlock sighs as he drops into the seat. He has to stifle a sound of relief as he takes the weight off of his now throbbing limb, steadfastly refusing to show any weakness to anyone, especially this strange man who seems to have been greatly affected by his dead parent. “I am here to recuperate.”

“Yeah.” John deadpans. “What exactly does that mean?” It is his turn to cross his arms as he leans back in his chair as if to put as much distance between the two of them as possible.

“How does it feel to be such a simpleton?” Sherlock sneers at him, wrinkling his nose.

“Excuse me?” John uncrosses his arms and leans towards him.

“You heard me. Sure you understand the meaning of the word _recuperate_?” Sherlock’s eyes bore into John.

“I certainly do, Mister Holmes. You seem fine to me, so what is the real reason? If you are here to spy on me and make decisions about my ability to do my job—which was given to me by _your family_ years ago, please do me the favor of simply telling me.”

“You. Are. An. Idiot.” Sherlock twirls himself out of the chair and stomps out of the room.

John watches him go knowing full well that he has not seen nor been provoked last by the youngest Holmes.

^=^

Back in the English countryside at some point deep in the midnight velvet cape of night, two men meet in the shadows behind a pub. A small, thin man carries a wad of cash in his hands, the other a large, lumpy brown sack. The two items are exchanged and the men begin to walk away from each other. The small man finds it strange that his contact is wearing sunglasses at midnight, but he shrugs it off as he counts his money; hoping that he will be well away before his little ploy is discovered.

Without any warning, the man with the sack turns on his heel and produces a nasty serrated blade from his trench coat and turns it on the man with the cash. The money falls all over the ground, tossed petals in homage to greed. The man in the trench coat snorts with unspressed glee as he watches the life drain from his victim. He picks up all but the most saturated of the bills and stuffs them back into his pockets. The knife disappears as quickly as it came to it’s master’s call. He hefts the sack in one gloved hand as if checking its weight, then snorts and nods to himself. “Fool. Trying to deceive your master.” He says in voice full of gravel and disdain as he casually turns away, his footsteps echoing into the blackness.


	7. Tilting at Windmills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once again, if you are squeamish, you have been warned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Please note the name Aimtree is a fully fictional racetrack. There will be several others so named, any resemblance to a real track is purely coincidental or because I wasn’t feeling creative enough to completely invent one myself.

**D** etective Lestrade makes his way to the stable office where Mycroft is working this morning. He moves efficiently down the stall aisles, noting the pricked ears and sometimes alert expressions of the stable’s inhabitants. Every so often he stops long enough to give a soft muzzle a stroke or a muscular neck a pat. He has never spent much time around horses and he is beginning to like their company. The animals give off such a comforting aura of placid contentedness when they are happily munching hay from their mangers or napping drowsily on their feet; they can be all excitement and fire as they fleetly cross the finish line, sweat foaming on their bodies, muscles straining. He admits that this whole equine dichotomy is immensely intriguing. The barn is full of the warm, earthy smells of horses and hay; only a slight amount of dust is kicked up as he walks. The mid-morning sun slants down in rays from the high windows, welcoming him deeper into the heart of the stable. The whole place gives off a rustic and welcoming atmosphere.

He pushes open the heavy wooden door without knocking, settling down in a chair and tossing a thick file on the desk just has he has done almost every day in the past two weeks. Mycroft has the telephone handset cradled against his shoulder and he smiles just enough to let Greg know he is welcome, but not enough that whoever is on the opposite end of the line can hear it in his voice. Mycroft holds up one finger and Greg nods. He takes his mind off of the caller for a second to think to himself that Greg looks wonderfully comfortable here, almost as if he _belongs_. He shakes it off just as quickly in an effort to pay attention to the person on the line and make sure that the given totals are correct.

Greg patiently waits while Mycroft completes his hay order, doing a little reflecting himself. In the past few weeks the two unlikely friends have been steadily growing closer. The detective has always been a good listener and it turns out that Mycroft has a lot to talk about: the business, his little brother, their parents (mom died when they were both very young, dad raised both boys and managed a growing business at the same time,) horses, his little brother, the current racing card, target shooting, his little brother, polo, and other things that they have in common such as a love for shiny, fast cars and a nice dark ale. He has also discovered that sometimes having a neutral party to bounce ideas off of helps him with his case load; Greg wonders why he has never tried that before: possibly because he is often surrounded by idiots who stop thinking about their cases the minute their arses walk out the doors at the end of their collective shifts.

Mycroft ends his call and gives Greg a more realistic smile when he hangs up the phone. Greg has never been one to mince words and he is not about to start now. He flips open the file folder to expose a small stack of 35mm prints and several sheets of a report. “There’s been another one.” He points at the body in the photograph, running the tip of his index finger along the nasty wound that runs under one of the man’s ears to the other. Mycroft tilts his head slightly, studying the photographs for what _is not_ there.

“Dope, again?” He asks, not taking his eyes off of the photographs.

“Unsure at this point, with those bills left underneath I am thinking this was a double-crossed drug deal gone wrong.” Greg points at several blurry but obviously blood-soaked notes under the body.

“It is hard to believe there is someone running amok out there with a weapon that can do this…” he gestures at the sad corpse again, “without being seen.” He pauses for a moment. Greg looks up from the photographs to meet his eyes.

“Where was he found?” Mycroft’s head is buzzing with all of the ideas he and the detective have discussed; they have been testing a theory.

“Less than a kilometer from Aimtree.” Greg nods the affirmative because he is already pretty much in agreement with what his friend is going to say.

“You believe this is Moriarty again?” Mycroft’s eyes are flinty and cold.

“Yes.” Greg sits back in the chair and crosses one leg over the other, resting his hands on his shin. “I do. It does not the other two as far as M.O; it appears that the poor bugger just had his throat slit. He’s missing the wealth of bruising found on the other two, but he has been identified as a former stable hand at White Fox Stables.”Greg studies Mycroft’s reactions closely; everyone at the precinct seems to think he is tilting at windmills, but Mycroft knows better. “As you well know, we do not currently have enough evidence to place this at your neighbor’s feet. Well, you know all that; and you also know how I feel about it all.”

Mycroft looks away for a moment, his mind furiously at war between wanting to just stare into the smooth milk chocolate irises that dominate the openly expressive face of the detective and simply murdering his neighbor outright. Fortunately, he does neither; instead he closes the file and asks Greg if he would like to join him for an early lunch.

Greg holds the door open and gives Mycroft a polite nod as the other man passes; of course he has an ulterior motive that happens to do with covertly checking out his backside; Greg’s eyes follow Mycroft as he glides past. He pulls the handle behind him until it clicks and follows Mycroft back out through the stable. As Greg did before, Mycroft often offers a pat to whichever horse pokes its head over its stall door. Greg smiles to himself as he watches Mycroft pull peppermints out from his jeans pockets, offering to the equines on a flat palm. They reach the end of the stalls and step out into the lukewarm sunshine.

Almost immediately, one of the stable hands rushes up to Mycroft.

“Mister Holmes! Mister Holmes!” The dark-haired young man is visibly shaking, his countenance pale and Greg notices slowly darkening splashes of blood across the green T-shirt he is wearing. Mycroft stops him with one hand on his shoulder; the young man takes a breath and starts into a long, rambling story. Mycroft squeezes his fingers against the man’s shoulder briefly and he stops in mid-sentence. “Take a breath, Stephen, then tell me.”

Stephen closes his eyes as he takes the deep breath so ordered. “It’s Brian, sir. He was out taking some warm-up jumps on the back course and Rena found him….” Stephen’s narrative trails off again. He seems to look inward at something too horrible to describe.

Mycroft barks out a couple of commands and several other stable hands appear from various places about the yard. “Joseph could you and Annie go and fetch the Jeep? I need to get down to the back course.” A blonde-haired young man and red-haired girl nod and hustle off in the direction of the garage. “Where is Rena now, Stephen?”

It takes a full five seconds for Stephen to answer. “She’s down with Brian. Sir, I have to tell you…” He makes a face and sways on his feet a little. Stephen finds his courage and takes a gulp to steady himself. “It is really bad, sir, I am fairly certain that Star Traveler’s wounds are fatal.”Mycroft gives the young man a pat.

“Stephen I need you to go to the house and call for an ambulance. Also, call Doctor Crowder. He will most likely be here before the ambulance.” Mycroft’s voice is soft but very obviously an order. Greg cannot deny that it works, though. Stephen nods again and rushes towards the house to call emergency services and the veterinarian, just as Joseph brings the Jeep to a stop in front of the men. Joseph starts to clamber out of the driver’s seat when Mycroft waves him off. “No time, Greg get in.” Greg climbs into the backseat beside Mycroft; Annie turns in the passenger seat and holds out a hand to Greg.

“Annie McDonald, sir. It is nice to meet you.” Annie is dressed similarly to all of the other stable hands: worn jeans and a green T-shirt, the only difference is the button-down flannel shirt overtop it all. Greg has noted on many occasions that Mycroft insists anyone around the stable yard have boots on at all times. Annie’s chestnut hair is starting to slip out of its rubber band, most likely from running to get the Jeep. She gives him a short, polite smile and turns back towards the dashboard when Joseph says “hold on” and then, feeling the urgency of the situation, stomps the gas pedal and the vehicle lurches forward. She grips the white metal medic kit resting on her knees to keep it from falling into the floor so hard that her knuckles match the color of the paint.

They travel quickly across two fields, heading catty-corner towards the back practice course. Greg can see four sturdy wooden steeplechase jumps and a petite blonde-haired young woman sitting on the ground at the fourth one. She stands upon hearing them and waves her arms in the air to get their attention, then drops back to the ground next to a crumpled form that can only be Brian. Annie jumps from the Jeep to land flat on both feet, her knees giving slightly with the landing. She is off and running the few remaining meters between the vehicle and the down man. Greg is on her heels with Joseph and Mycroft behind him.

When they finally catch up, it is to find the young woman named Rena holding Brian’s hand and speaking to him in quiet tones. Even being a detective, which generally people believe means that one has seen the absolute worst of everything humans can possibly do to each other, Greg is not prepared for what he does see.

Brian is a tall kid about nineteen years old. His hair is dark brown, his skin carrying a hint of the Caribbean. His eyes are closed and his breathing is heavy, starting into gasping. Sweat is beading across his forehead, his lips are pale and his right arm is bent at an angle that should not be possible. Blood is gushing from a long wound on that arm that runs from his shoulder to his elbow. It is a long, thin slice that may not prove fatal but it damn close. Annie is working quickly yanking long ropes of gauze from the medic kit and wrapping the arm as tightly as she dares. She turns an intense azure gaze up to Greg. “It seems as if it just broken, if I wrap it too tightly he may lose it. I want to stop the heaviest bleeding, but I do not want to restrict all blood flow.” Greg nods his understand and Annie turns back to Brian.

Sadly, it is not the worst of his wounds. His T-shirt is torn across the midsection by what Greg is fairly certain is a narrow length of pretty nasty wire. His eyes follow the cut across the ground and there it is: a broken piece of barbed wire hanging down from the jump. Greg moves away from the small group towards the jump picking up the following the wire and taking care not to touch it or knock any of the torn pieces of green material from its barbs. There are also shiny drips of blood at the tips. He wishes he had his radio, though it will only take him a few moments to get back up to his car to call for help and secure the scene.

“Joseph, could you come here please?” Greg slips easily into detective mode. The young man literally jumps to his feet to join Greg. “Could I trust you to stay here while I radio for help? Don’t let anyone touch the wire or the jump.”

“Yes, sir.” Joseph nods and plants his feet shoulder width apart, then crosses his arms over his chest.

“Good man.” Greg pats his shoulder then turns to look for Mycroft. When he finds him he is horrified.

Mycroft stands about two meters away from Brian, who is lying where he fell when he was thrown. Mycroft’s back is towards Greg, so he approaches him carefully. He can just see the curve of a glossy black hoof on the ground at Mycroft’s feet. He steps closer and takes in the seventeen-hand black Thoroughbred stretched out on the ground. The animal’s neck is stretched out as far as it will go and the horse is gasping for breath. Blood trickles from his nostrils and the gash on his face. Farther down there is a wide slice across his muscular chest very similar to that of the one across Brian’s lower torso.

Greg shakes his head. Even worse is the fact that two of the animal’s legs are broken, the left hind and front. Another scratch winds from one side of the horse’s neck to the other: the skin there has been broken but not enough to create the massive bleeding as the one across his chest. It is a terrible sight to behold and Greg is overcome with compassion for his friend. He places what he hopes is a comforting hand on Mycroft’s shoulder. Mycroft turns towards him for the first time, eyes red and face contorted in angry and grief; before he can say anything, however, the silence around them is split by the wailing of an ambulance. The vehicle pulls up even closer to Brian than they did and three men and a women rush towards their patient, calling orders out as they move.

Greg watches them for a moment. They work quickly and efficiently and soon they have Brian as comfortable as can be expected on a backboard. They load him into the ambulance just as a shorter man wearing a white lab coat with a stethoscope swinging about his neck jogs up next to them. Dr. Crowder moves to Mycroft’s other side, takes in the horror in front of him and moves around to the horse’s head.

“I’m so sorry, Mycroft.” He says quietly. He listens to the big animal’s great heart, closes his eyes and looks to the eldest Holmes. Mycroft sighs, a deep broken sound that Greg fears will wrench his own heart in two. No words are said as the veterinarian goes to his truck and returns with an old rifle. Mycroft nods again then leans down to pat the horse’s neck in farewell. Greg gently pulls on him until they are back in the Jeep sitting close enough that Greg can feel Mycroft’s heartbeat in his own chest. Annie gets behind the wheel and Rena slides into the passenger seat. Mycroft says nothing as Annie starts the Jeep and turns back towards the stable yard at a much slower pace than before. The sound of the Jeep’s engine is loud but not enough to muffle the sound of the shot that takes the poor broken animal out of its misery.

They are at the stable yard in no time at all and alone in the Jeep when Mycroft finally turns towards Greg. One single tear is tracking its way down his cheek. “Brian will be okay, but Star Traveler…..” What is there to say, really? Greg pats the other man’s leg. Mycroft sighs as he wrestles his control back. Greg waits patiently. “There are but a few races left this year and Star Traveler was the favorite on the high stakes race on Saturday.”

“I understand.” He says as he folds Mycroft into a hug. Mycroft nods into his shoulder and it is unsaid between them just who they believe is responsible for the carnage.


	8. Enter the Sandman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John wakes up to some heavy reality; James plays with his favorite toy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Dreams of war  
> Dreams of lies  
> Dreams of dragons fire  
> And of things that will bite, yeah.."  
> Enter the Sandman, (C) Metallica   
> Only quoted here simply because I thought it was appropriate.

John and Sherlock have barely spoken since the day Sherlock stormed out of the stable office. Sure, they have seen each other in passing and even given polite “hellos” but neither man has made any extra effort, even though they are staying under the same roof.

With the onset of cooler weather and the end of the racing season, John is slipping into a less rigid schedule where he often sleeps in until eight or nine. Between the two of them, it seems to be working because Sherlock is often gone to parts unknown when John gets out of bed and presumably is not returning until well after he turns in for the night.

This morning finds John standing on the wall beside Tracy as she grooms one of the horses in the wash rack. She is telling him about a couple of her girlfriends back in Sussex as she brushes the bright red coat, picks hard hooves clean and then combs out a silky black tail. John knows he is only there to listen so he leans against the wall and watches his daughter, giving the occasional sound of agreement or clicking tongue at the escapes of one girl named Sarah who always seems to be in trouble. Tracy is telling him about how she wrecked her 1970s model Volkswagen Beetle simply because Sarah was too busy checking out some adorable ( _like, ay-door-a-bull dad, totally!_ ) bloke in the rearview and not seeing the telephone box ( _bright red, mind you_ ) before the front of her car was buried in it. Thankfully no one was hurt, except Sarah’s pride and bank account.

John’s mind wanders as he lets Tracy’s voice wash over him, just as he has done since she learned to talk. They seem to have an understanding in that she speaks and he listens. He is glad that she has adjusted so well to parents who simply cannot stand to be in one another’s presence any longer than absolutely necessary as well as a father who lives half a world away. His mind then shows him a slideshow of someone else’s father, a man who helped him get his feet underneath himself and gave him the means to take care of his daughter: the girl that became a golden spark igniting the fire of his life, a catalyst to maturity. He zeroes back in on the girl again for a moment then to the horse whose head is down as far as the cross-ties allow with eyelids half-closed and ears relaxed. He wonders if he has the same expression on his own face.

Tracy pats the horse’s neck and moves to John’s side, copying his posture against the wood. “Hey, dad, I’m really sorry I brought that Sherlock bloke into the office that day; I really had no idea you had such strong feelings…”

John twists his head around towards Tracy so fast he almost gives himself whiplash. “What?”

Tracy sets her mouth into a crooked line. She shakes her head forcefully enough that her ponytail whips around her forehead. “Nevermind, dad, I need to go work Artistic Endeavors…” She starts to walk toward the tack room. The horse snorts then pricks his ears up, ready for anything besides standing here waiting; he whips his tail across his rump out of aggravation. John ignores the horse and reaches out to catch her wrist as she turns away. She stops and sighs. She knows from long practice that her dad really does not like talking about emotions and is beginning to regret saying anything in the first place.

“Tracy, what are you telling me?” John knows his reaction to his daughter’s words is completely illogical, but for some reason he is suddenly nervous that she has seen something he has tried to keep hidden. He really _needs_ to understand. Now.

Tracy makes her best put-upon-teenage-girl sigh and twirls the end of her platinum ponytail around her fingers. She tilts her head slightly, piercing him with suddenly wise blue eyes. Endeavor stomps his feet against the concrete and jiggles the chains on the cross-ties as if to remind them that he is still there. “It just seemed as if you were, I dunno, jolted? Maybe? Like something about him just…hold on.” She grabs the lead rope from where she hung it on the wall hook and snaps it to Endeavor’s halter, releasing the clips of the crossties where they smack loudly against the opposite sides of the wash rack. “Can we talk while we walk, dad?”

John nods. This is the way it always been between them, no reason to mess up a working system now. They move through the mostly-empty stable, their footsteps followed by the hollow-sounding clop of Endeavor’s hooves against the concrete and then wood, followed by a softer thud as they reach the grass outside the paddocks. The horse whickers at some of his stable mates then drops his head to crop at the grass growing alongside the fencing.

John finds his patience wearing a bit thin. He clears his throat. “Tracy, what did you see?”

“Daddy, you were energized. Even though it seems like you were a little bit angry, there was something about him that made you take notice. Get it?” She asks, never taking her eyes off of the horse. She moves each time he takes a step forward. His muscular jaw makes short work of the vegetation with a soft crunching sound that is always music to the ears of horse people. “It was the same way when I was little, like the first time you saw Commanche Warrior. That big grey stud was _all_ that you could see. Even I could tell that you were itching to ride him and when he finally did win, even though you were stuck in your seat—in your mind you were up there putting him through the race. You know?”

“Wow” is really all John can say because he never expected this. For a second he thinks about the silly thing he said to Sherlock about sounding so much like Sieger, then wonders if there was more to that line that simply a way for him to delve into a past he did not often dwell on in his day-to-day life. “Really intuitive, that.” John wraps an arm around Tracy’s waist, giving her a tight squeeze. She gives him a smile then dips her head down for John to kiss her on the forehead as he turns to make his way up to the house.

As he walks, he considers how many times Tricia had looked him dead in the eyes and told him that he would never be as loyal to her or Tracy as they deserved, that there was always something else he seemed to be reaching for. Once she even told him that it seemed as if they were just some sort of waiting platform for him, that he was just waiting to see if he was going to like what was in the next train before deciding where his heart would lie. His counter argument had been something stupid about how he was providing for them and trying to do _the right thing_ to which Patricia gave him that _look-_ the one that said a million things and nothing at all. That was right before she took Tracy and stepped out of his life for several years. She always let him see his daughter whenever he had time, but the rift between them would never be repaired. Eventually, Patricia remarried but they remained amicable enough to raise their daughter until John moved to Pennsylvania. After that the visits were sporadic until Tracy was old enough to travel between the two households on her own. This is the second year in a row that she would be here for longer than a few weeks as she planned on staying through foaling season this time.

Of course, she was not so far off, he considers as he opens the front door. He shucks his jacket then pulls of his boots, padding across the wood, carpet and then linoleum in his socks. He is turning on the burner on the stove and setting his old tea kettle with very little thought behind the motions. When he finally realizes that his hands seem to be working of their own accord, he thinks that some things are just too well ingrained in one’s psyche no matter what side of the pond he is currently living on. He leans back against the counter to wait for the water to boil. The months that he spent winning races and charming every pretty thing at the track into his bed were overwhelming. Sieger never said a word to him about his short-lived relationships except to tell him that as long as they did not cause problems with the other owners to the points where it would affect his rides, he was pretty much a free man.

He was never a free man, though, not really. Not from the time they found out Tricia was pregnant nor from those first words after waking up on the bench outside that pub; he was never coerced into doing anything—but it was the first time in his life someone made him feel like he was capable of stepping up and being a _man_ and not a mistake. He just took it a step further and wondered if his old nickname around the stables had been retired or given to someone else.

The kettle whistled, John made himself a cup of tea and then sat down at the table, first blowing across the cup and then taking a cautious sip of the steaming brew. The bittersweet tang and the warmth it brought gave him a chance to think about how Tricia was right all those years ago. Perhaps he should give Sieger’s youngest son a chance; really, it was only fair after the way he had his entire life turned around by the Holmes family. John finished his cup, making up his mind in the process. Surely there is some common ground between them that they could start from? He thought back to how he felt after he had first been injured in the accident that stopped his riding career and the light bulb in his brain flashed neon yellow.

^=^

“I want to _win_ , goddammit!” James Moriarty’s explosive voice rises to a high pitch and then lowers as he shouts across the room. He drops his tone until the other people in the conference room are forced to lean forward to listen. “How dare you ask me _why_ I killed the horse! Are you really so _ordinary_ that you can only see what lies in front of your ridiculous face? Tell me, Antoine! Make it good because, well, you know why.” Each  ‘s’ sound is drawn out sibilant; snake-like; Antoine cannot hide the shudder than runs from the center of his forehead, around his crown and down his spine; his master is dangerous and he knows it well. He does not dare move from the spot.

James steps back away from the edge of the highly-polished, blonde, kidney-shaped table towards the floor-to-ceiling windows that line the back wall. He clasps his hands together behind his back; his dark eyes flash with unhidden bloodlust and the tall, thin man in front of him gulps loud enough to be heard at the back of the almost-silent room. He stands in the midday shadows, allowing the autumn sun to make bright stripes across his shiny black vest and matching trousers; he knows how good he looks as the gold pocket watch glitters with his movements: he has studied himself in the mirror enough to know exactly the picture he makes.

Antoine stills his hands by shoving them deep into his pockets with enough force to almost push his trousers completely off. James’ eyes narrow and he steps closer, unbuttoning his shirt cuffs and rolling them up above his elbows. His arms are lightly tan and leanly muscled; his fingernails are flawless. Antoine is hypnotized by the movements of James removing his thin black tie. Everyone can see that the man is literally about to shit himself like a dog about to be punished.

The table that dominates the room is up on a dais, giving the illusion that James is the tallest man in the room, even though he is the smallest. James tosses his tie across it and every eye follows the strip of material as it slides across the table and plops down into one of the charcoal-gray leather upholstered chairs that no one except for James and those he deems worthy may sit in.

“One more time, Antoine; answer me.”

Antoine seems to realize that moving one’s lips without actually speaking gets him exactly nowhere. James is moving closer. “I…I am sorry. Sorry, sir. Sir.”

“You know what, Antoine?” James beckons the man closer with one finger. Antoine meekly steps forward until the toes of his grimy sneakers touch against the dais. James plants the tip of his index finger directly underneath Antoine’s jaw and pushes upward, wishing he had a knife. It would not do, however, for the other six slime bags in the room to see how quick he could kill them all—better to let them wonder about it.

“Yes sir.” Antoine’s voice is shaky now, James knows that he has lost him. Antoine does not allow his eyes to meet those of his master.

James removes his finger, steps back and turns away in a dramatic little spin on his feet. For an instant, Antoine breaths clearly, thinking he has been spared for his part in turning over the mole a while back.

James stops in front of the windows and reclasps his hands. “You know what, just no.” In an instant, a very large man in an incredibly long trench coat steps through the doors and bounds towards Antoine. He brandishes the nasty serrated knife that he has used to dispatch the last few worthless addicts in James’ employ.

James stands and watches his guard dog work with an expression of gleeful malevolence on his face. “It is time to meet the Sandman.” He says and laughs. The large man slices through Antoine’s throat and the body drops to the floor, the cut artery spraying blood towards the ceiling. The big man stands over the body with his blade in one hand and the other stretched out as if to stop Antoine from standing up again—as if that would happen.

James’ manical laugher continues, only broken by the words “…they are all useless.” In moments, the hulking killer has slit the throats of everyone in the room, save for the master. He wades through the blood pooling on the gray and lilac Berber carpet towards James, dropping to his knees a meter from where Antoine lies, his fixed eyes showing that he will no longer need the next hit to get by. James stands in front of the brutish man and lays one hand on the top of his head. The big man nods as if he is being knighted then allows his gaze to fall on James’ face. James grins at him, taking in the blood-soaked sight of the man he calls the Sandman then hauls him forward into a nasty, forceful battle of a mockery of a loving kiss. Tomorrow he will need more employees and some arm candy, but for now he will take what he wants.


	9. New Dog-Old Tricks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When their eyes finally meet, John is completely thrown for a loop by the joyful expression on Sherlock’s face. He thinks that perhaps this is how the youngest Holmes probably looks after a race, whether he won it or not. He knows from his own experiences that sometimes it is the thrill of the speed and the rush of the wind that makes you feel like you are flying—and sometimes that is enough: winning is just the icing on the cake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think we need just a bit of male bonding.

Sherlock huffs and crosses his arms over his chest then proceeds to stare down his nose at the bike at the same time pretending he simply is not seeing it as if the mere _idea_ of sitting _behind_ a horse and not _on_ it is an insult to his own skills. Briefly he wonders why he even agreed to this meeting in the first place. He leans against the fence surrounding the practice track, trying to look uninterested and failing. He steadfastly refuses to help. When she is not looking however, he runs a gloved hand through his chaotic curls in a nervous habit he has never been able to kick.

 Sherlock spreads his legs shoulder width apart as Tracy finishes harnessing up the black horse that apparently is named Ebony Eclipse. He will grudgingly admit to himself that the mare is beautiful with her glossy black coat made thicker with the onset of cooler temperatures, thin white blaze down her face and hind socks. She is the very picture of equine femininity with her neat pricked up ears and intelligent eyes. She is only about fifteen hands tall, much smaller than the horses he is used to backing. He idly wonders if he sat on her back how far he would have to slouch for his feet to touch the ground.

Tracy watches the tall man with a wry smile on his pursed lips. In some ways she feels responsible for the being ignorant of the situation between Sherlock and her dad, so she happily accepted when he asked for her help. Ebony is a decent sort of horse that she has used to train new drivers in the past: an honest mare that will not play games or attempt any funny business for the greenie. It would do no good for him to get hurt on his first time out.

“Well, come on.” Tracy gestures towards the bike seat. Sherlock huffs again, reconsidering the rather uncomfortable looking position but then decides his dignity will still be intact and after all, what does he really have to lose if the horse kicks in that direction anyway? Another testicle? He snorts sarcastically then settles into the seat. Tracy reaches down and grasps one booted leg in both hands, lifting Sherlock’s foot into the air and settling it into the stirrup. Apparently making a protest at being handled by a horse girl is useless so he lets her do the same with the other leg.

“Your reins work the same way. Sherlock, will you pay attention?” Her patience is wearing thinner and thinner by the second. “You would think someone who understands the way a saddle works would get this—it is the same idea.” She mumbles. Sherlock tilts his head as she hands him the long reins. “Same thing here, too.” She points to the smooth leather in his hands. “Reins.” She points towards Ebony’s face, naming each part as she goes. “Bit.” Ebony snorts. “Bridle.” When she completes the circuit of the tack, Sherlock is watching her with an expression that seems to be a strange mix of exasperation touched with maybe a tiny hint of respect for giving him as good as she gets.

“The biggest difference in driving and riding is that you cannot control the horse with your legs. Use your voice. She understands ‘gee’ which means turn left,” She pulls the left rein gently and Ebony turns her head in that direction. “and ‘haw’ which means turn right.” She tugs on the right rein. “When you want her to slow up and jog, simply say ‘jog’. Dad doesn’t like hard mouths on his horses, so remember once you give her a command, give her enough rein to allow her to do it. With me so far?”

Sherlock is fascinated enough that he replies with “Yes.”

Tracy just looks at him, any answer at all completely unexpected. That is the first thing he has said to her since the day he arrived. She shrugs it off. “Right then, couple more things: ‘walk’ means ‘walk’ and ‘go!’ tells her to break into her racing gait; for now, just let her settle into a nice easy trot so you can learn the ropes. When you like what she’s doing, just let her alone. If you want more speed, just tap her shoulder or her rear with the reins. She’s been around a time or two, just, like, give her a chance, you know?”

Sherlock cannot help but wonder why Tracy ended her sentence as a question, so it is his turn to shrug it off. She grabs the helmet from the back of the bike and drops it onto his head with perhaps a little more force than necessary, then hands him a pair of sunglasses from her back pocket. He shakes his head but she thrusts them onto his face anyway. “No, you need eye protection out there and I don’t have an extra pair of goggles at the moment, so you are stuck with these. “

“Remember, Sherlock, nice and easy. Let her set the pace until you feel comfortable where you are.” In that second, everything is exactly the same as before any other race. Someone is giving him orders, he is taking them and working them from every angle to run his own race. “Oh! One more thing.” Tracy reaches over, grabs the end of Ebony’s tail and shoves it under Sherlock’s rear end with absolutely no ceremony whatsoever. She grins when he looks up at her because in the bike sits low enough that his head is now level with her shoulders. “It is to keep you from getting smacked in the face!” She steps back away from them and clicks her tongue. Ebony completely skips walking, immediately snapping into an easy trot. “Of course, if you are anything like daddy says, you deserve it.” She says to herself as they pull away. Tracy settles back on her heels to keep an eye on things.

In the sulky Sherlock studies everything: the way the muscles play in the horse in front of him, the way the sulky seems to just skim the ground, the sound of Ebony’s hoof beats playing a staccato melody and even the way her mane bounces up and down on the crest of her neck as they move along. Tracy was right, Ebony has a soft mouth and responds in lighting quick time with each request he makes, which, admittedly, has not been too many since they began but now he is getting the hang of it. He has tried to squeeze his legs against her flanks a few times but then finally realized how stupid that really is, due to the distance of said flanks from his legs; until he remembers the voice commands. ‘Chasers are never trained with such commands because it is already too easy to get in close to each other’s mounts and _accidentally_ let a whip slip or whatever.

Sherlock’s mind wanders a bit as he notices Ebony pulling on the bit. He sits back against the seat, tilting his pelvis forward slightly then clicks to the mare and shouts “Go!”

Ebony surges forward as if jolted with electricity. When Sherlock looks to the side, her legs are a blur, each a piston propelling the muscular body forward. She lays her ears back against her head and almost yanks the reins out of his hands. Sherlock begins to laugh. The horse’s ears swivel back and forth, waiting for his next instruction.

Tracy hears another set of hoof beats from outside the track and looks towards the gate just in time to see John fly through it, wearing his helmet, goggles and a big shit-eating grin. She waves to him and watches the bay gelding make short work of gaining on the mare. Of course, she is several years older and he has been training almost every day, but Sherlock does not know this and Tracy wishes she could see the look on his face clearer.

Sherlock is really beginning to enjoy the trotter’s racing speed when suddenly there is a blur beside him and John is turning and waving at them, reins held in one hand. “Oh, it’s on!” Sherlock shouts into the wind. Ebony seems to kick into a higher gear and it is not long before the horses are pulling up side-by-side, the two men grinning at each other like Cheshire cats.

 

^=^

James Moriarty struts in front of the camera, a tom cat in a navy blue suit and fedora, polished gold chain on his pocket watch glinting in the sun like flames. He pats the waif like red-headed female clinging to his arm the way her filmy dress clings to her. The announcer tells the racing world at large that James has trained four of the favorites on today’s steeplechase card and he stands to win a significant amount of money even if they all simply place or show.

No one watching him would have any idea of what a snake in disguise he really is. Mycroft narrows his eyes at the television screen when a larger-than-life close-up of the face of the man is flashed. Again, James is smiling and it is difficult to tell, but Mycroft is pretty sure the smile does not show in his eyes however hidden they are by the stylish gold-rimmed aviator sunglasses.

The next scene shows a montage of James giving a leg up to several of his jockeys, their scarlet and charcoal gray silks as impeccable as James’ suits. The names of many of his winners scroll down in a list as Mycroft physically restrains himself from growling. In the majority of those races, his own ‘chasers had come in place or show to Moriarty’s wins. A light bulb seems to turn on in Mycroft’s head as a realization comes over him with a set of goose bumps to match. He switches the television off then rushes from the sitting room towards his office where quite literally thousands of racing programs and their accompanying results are kept. He sits cross-legged on the floor in front of one of the bookshelves, makes himself comfortable and begins to methodically go through each and every last one of them from the last few years.

It is very late in the evening before Mycroft moves, which turns out to be difficult indeed as he has literally weaved himself into a corner with piles of programs. He shoves a stack out of the way to stretch his legs. He stands and rolls his neck then reaches down for one of the piles. It will be more comfortable in the kitchen, and besides a nice cuppa and biscuits, he can give his detective friend a call at the same time.

^=^

As they make a third turn around the track, John lets his horse slow down to a walk. Sherlock copies him. The sulkies are near enough for them to hear each other, but both are taking care not to smack the wheels together. John pushes his goggles up over the brim of his helmet then wipes his face with his hand. Sherlock follows his motions with the borrowed sunglasses, which are making it harder to see as the late afternoon sun begins to drift towards the horizon. 

When their eyes finally meet, John is completely thrown for a loop by the joyful expression on Sherlock’s face. He thinks that perhaps this is how the youngest Holmes probably looks after a race, whether he won it or not. He knows from his own experiences that sometimes it is the thrill of the speed and the rush of the wind that makes you feel like you are flying—and sometimes that is enough: winning is just the icing on the cake.

“Well, what did you think?” At this speed there is no reason to shout, though he does raise his voice to be heard over all the sounds of creaking leather, bouncing plastic and horses’ snorts.

“That was very enjoyable, I thank you.” Sherlock somehow manages to keep his eyes locked on John’s because at this point, steering Ebony is useless as she knows the routine very well.

“Interested in doing it again?” John queries as they approach the gate.

“Yes.” Sherlock answers, stopping Ebony as John moves past.

John is pretty sure he heard ‘thank you’ as he drives through the gate and he cannot stop the smile that is threatening to take over his entire face. Sherlock follows him back to the barns, Tracy having left the practice track sometime before their second circuit. All the while, John is considering that perhaps Sherlock may not be such a bad person after all, perhaps maybe just understood. After all, he is thousands of kilometers from home and keeps to himself; John thinks that maybe he can draw the younger man out of his shell and at least make his time here better than it started out.


	10. A Wise Man's Sons

“ _Journeys end in lovers meeting, every wise man's son doth know."_

-Shakespeare (Twelfth Night)

 

Mycroft Holmes sits in the crowded restaurant paying absolutely no attention to anyone other than the detective across the table from him. It has been weeks since the last murder and the two men have turned their dinner conversation towards other topics. Mycroft sips his wine slowly, enjoying the flavor on his tongue just a little less than he is enjoying the other man’s companionship. His eyes move from the cream-colored linen tablecloths to the sconces on the wall and back, taking in their surroundings in a glance, much as he has done off and on all evening.

“How is Sherlock doing then, all across the pond on his own?” Greg is curious as he samples from his own glass, hoping he is hiding his smile from his friend as he pointedly does not see Mycroft scanning the crowd for one Moriarity or any of his goons. Anyone else might call them paranoid, as it seems their little secret has set them out on their own from any ‘official’ type of inquiries into the cases.

Mycroft delicately sets the wineglass back on its coaster. “He is doing quite well, detective. The farm manager, John Watson, seems to have found ways to keep my brother from going out of his mind with boredom.” He fiddles with the gold cuff links on his wrists, never taking his eyes from Greg’s.

“He must have an iron constitution, that one.” Greg says.

Mycroft genuinely smiles. “I forget sometimes that you have not met him. He is a good man, Greg. My father picked him up off a pub floor one day and gave him a job to help him out. That was well over fifteen years ago.”

“That’s impressive. Maybe your da’ could simply read the measure of a man on the first meeting?” Greg takes the last piece of shrimp from his plate and pops it into his mouth, savoring the buttery taste of the breading. He pretends not to notice that Mycroft is noticing.

“I like to believe that he could, yes.” Mycroft’s train of thought trails off when the detective uses his index finger to wipe an almost-undetectable drip of butter from his lips before it makes its way down the front of his black and white checked button-down. He clears his throat and turns back to his lobster tail in a desperate move to gain  control of his racing thoughts.

Their waitress stops by their table to see if they need anything else. Both men answer to the negative then turn back towards one another. Mycroft wonders if he is the only one who noticed that when she stands with her back towards the entrance blocking two of the signs that it makes them read ‘ _lobster-girl_ ’ behind her. The thought does not last long, though, because Greg is the most fascinating thing happening in the entire place tonight. The detective tugs the bottle of wine free from its icy container and offers it to Mycroft. Mycroft nods towards his glass and Greg tops them both off.

 

^=^

John’s breath is a foggy cloud in front of his mouth that blurs the late-afternoon sun as he makes his way to the big barn from the house. In the past week since John somehow managed to get Sherlock to try out harness driving, the two men seem to be on more even footing with one another. John finally fully believes that Sherlock is only here in order to recuperate from his injuries as nothing else has changed at all, save for having one of the actually Holmes family members about the place.

John steps through the big sliding door after having opened it just enough to permit himself before turning and pulling it shut against the cold. Inside, the barn is much warmer for the horses, so John unzips his coat. The barn is a quiet haven with only the sounds of a radio tuned softly to a classical music station, horses crunching hay or drinking water, and the scraping sound of a pitchfork then the thud of dirty bedding as it is tossed into a wheelbarrow. The stable hands are doing a quick once-over before leaving for the night since most of the horses are kept in now due to the cold.

At this very moment, it is specifically a yellow wheelbarrow that is parked in the center of the aisle. Small piles of bedding are actually being thrown from a stall on either side of it in quick succession as if the stable hands are racing one another. John just sighs.

“Hi Mark!” He calls brightly down the aisle as he approaches. Mark sticks his head out the stall on the right as he dumps his load onto the pile with the rest of it. He is down to just his T-shirt and jeans, actually warmed up enough by the activity to sweat. John knows Tracy has a small ‘thing’ for the young man so he unconsciously sizes him up every time they are within a few meters of one another. He is a trustworthy young man, always shows up when he supposed to be here and treats everyone around him with genuine respect. His daughter could do a lot worse, he supposes. Mark wipes his forehead with the back of his hand, gives John a smile and turns back to his chores. He speaks quietly to the horse who occupies the stall, clicking and patting the animal in request to move over so he can get to the other side.

So that leaves whoever is flying through cleaning the stall on the left side; John figures that it must be Jeff. Mark and Jeff have been friends for years and often work together. John moves in front of the open stall door with a friendly greeting on his lips but as soon as he actually sees _who_ is in the stall, his heart begins to pound and his mouth goes dry. Instead of a tall, muscular young man in his early twenties, he is looking at a tall, lean thirty-year old who is presently not wearing a shirt at all, though a red flannel is tied around his rather trim waist, the neck of it hitting just under his rear end. For a moment, all John can see is a single bead of sweat that begins at the nape of the neck, just under wet jet-black curls. It glistens is the cast off light from the ceiling and rolls gently down the center of a rather T-boned shaped back past muscles that bunch across his shoulders covered with slightly flushed skin as the man works the pitchfork with surefire precision.

This is completely shocking to John’s system for more than the sight in front of him: it’s really the first time he has ever seen a Holmes actually doing physical labor. Sure they probably all started out that way, but to actually see it (and in such a nice package!) is almost overwhelming. He has about two seconds to consider that perhaps he should move when the pitchfork comes up and its load is tossed into the air.

To land directly on John’s head and shoulders.

John sputters and uses both hands to brush the muck and wet shavings from his head. Mark is roaring with laughter behind him, slapping his hands against his knees. John is as composed as he can be, all things considered, though the look on Sherlock’s face is absolutely priceless. When he turns around to find out why his last pitch sounded wrong, he is met with the sight of John cleaning his face off with both hands and sputtering to keep the stuff out of his mouth.

Sherlock’s green eyes are as wide as saucers. He does not move, unsure as to how his mistake is going to be taken. It is unbelievable that John just seemed to appear out of thin air at the very moment Sherlock is thinking about him.

^=^

“Mishter Holmes, shure, I do believe you have gothen me drunk.” Greg smiles in a happy, lopsided fashion at Mycroft as they leave the restaurant together. He leans against Mycroft’s shoulder with a laugh. Mycroft gently heaves him into the front seat of his car, and then slides into the driver’s side.

“Where to, then?”Mycroft asks the sloshed detective. He stopped sipping wine and started in on coffee a bottle of wine ago, knowing that one of them has to get the two of them home safely. It would not do to call a cab whose driver may or may not use information about said detective in a negative manner.

“I do believe we shall go back to yourth.” Greg answers in a tone entirely too serious for the situation.

Mycroft puts the vehicle into gear and pulls out of the parking lot. The restaurant is almost deserted save for staff though he feels he paid them enough extra tonight that it was not too much of a problem. He shifts gears easily on the two-seater sports car and is quite surprised when Greg’s hand falls over his on the gear shift. Greg’s palm is warm and fits over his like a glove. Greg weaves their hands together.

At a stop sign, Mycroft looks in the rear view to make sure there is no one behind them, then drops the car into park and turns towards the detective. “Greg, you are inebriated.”

“I know I am.” He is leaning back against the leather seat, eyes half-closed and the loopiest expression plastered onto his face. “Doesn’t shtop me from feeling and thinking schtuff.”Greg does a silly flirty thing with his eyebrows and Mycroft laughs.

Mycroft pats Greg’s hand with the one not currently being held down to the gear shift. “I am a gentleman, Greg. I would never take advantage of you in your current situation. I will, however, offer you the use of a guest room until you are sober.” Mycroft shifts the car back into drive and spends the rest of the journey home contemplating the feel of the warm hand covering his own, listening to the sound of Greg’s breathing after he falls asleep in the warm leather seat, having giggled himself into an impromptu nap.

Mycroft takes the long way home.

^=^

John wraps the biggest, fluffiest bath towel he owns around his hips and ties it tightly after stepping into a clean pair of underwear. He opens the bathroom door cautiously; worried that Sherlock might still be in the hallway waiting on him. Over the time that they have built up their friendship, John has learned that personal space does not mean much to the other man.  He really does not want Sherlock to see the rather personal problem he is struggling with as his mind keeps showing him still frames of that bead of sweat. His mind is desperately trying to shake it off, though other parts are shouting rather loudly that they will not be ignored. John makes himself a promise that he will take care of the rather pressing problem tonight, but not until he is alone. He thinks he can hear a disappointed voice in the back of his mind, though he flat-out ignores it.

He makes his way to laundry room where the dryer is still busily tumbling his now clean jeans about. He opens the door and grabs his t-shirt then feels the denim: still too damp to be comfortable, but the shirt is dry so he slips it on over his head, relishing the feel of the warm cotton. He presses the start button on the dryer again then leans against the counter that runs along the wall. The pleasant smells of the small room relax him so he closes his eyes as he waits for the buzzing alarm that tells him his jeans are clean.

Just as he is pulled out of his quiet contemplation of what Sherlock’s shoulders would feel like under his fingertips, the man in question is leaning against the door jamb regarding John intensely. When their eyes meet, Sherlock steps in very close and rests his hands on John’s hips. “You enjoyed that.” Sherlock’s gaze makes John feel flayed, though he has absolutely no reason to fear the truth.

“Indeed.” It just so happens to be the only word he can get out before his tongue is suddenly too big for his mouth. He holds Sherlock’s gaze with what he hopes is an unwavering stare.

“I did not realize you were…” Sherlock’s voice is deep and doing strange things to the parts of John’s anatomy that he was warring with a few minutes earlier. “You have a daughter.” Sherlock states as he gently tugs John’s hips towards his own. Even through the thick towel, John has a pretty good idea that this is all as interesting to Sherlock as it is to him.

“I do. I can appreciate beauty anytime.” John is proud of himself for a coherent sentence.

“Ah.” Sherlock answers as he leans down and places a soft kiss against John’s lips.

The feral sound that tears itself from John’s chest will certainly never be acknowledged, however, Sherlock pushes against him until John cannot go back any further against the counter. Their kiss is hesitant at first then rapidly builds into something that leaves both men panting and a little more than aware of each other’s arousal. Sherlock picks at the knot of John’s towel as he kisses him, finally giving a hum of approval against John’s mouth when the soft cotton hits the tiled floor. His warm hands are suddenly everywhere, gently dipping past the waistband of John’s pants then proceeding to cup his achingly hard member through them. John grasps the back of Sherlock’s neck in order to pull the taller man down to him.

When it seems that Sherlock is not going anywhere anytime soon, John allows his hands to explore, finally feeling those broad shoulders through the shirts Sherlock is still wearing. They are as wonderful to touch as they are to see.

As their kisses become deeper and more heated, he slowly unbuttons the flannel and then pulls up the thin t-shirt to get to the skin beneath it. His fingers splay across Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock moans softly and pulls John even closer to him as they begin to softly rut their hips together. John runs his tongue along Sherlock’s bottom lip and Sherlock’s mouth opens to admit him. John thinks he could live on this ambrosia for the rest of his life.

Sherlock’s hand is still busy teasing John’s erection through his pants so John decides to return the favor. He gently but firmly runs his hand down the front of Sherlock’s jeans, unsnapping the button-fly to open them up far enough to reach in and grab the silky hot hardness he is desperate to feel. Sherlock’s hips stutter for a second and he yanks John’s underwear down so that he can wrap his own fingers around John. They are falling into a rhythm of tongues and hands until John cups Sherlock’s balls.

Sherlock stiffens, pulling away from John’s mouth as if he has grabbed an electric fence. His eyes are shocked and he backs away from the other man. Without saying a word, he rushes from the room leaving John standing there half-naked in a puddle of towel and underwear wondering what in the hell he did wrong.


	11. Devil in Sunglasses

The sun takes baby steps to rise on a new Saturday morning, spreading a little warmth among the grey clouds that hover above the rooftops of the stable yard of Holmes Enterprises, England. Grooms and stable hands have begun arriving for the day: greetings are exchanged, tools are made ready, and several liters of coffee are brewed. The stone walls of the buildings are cool to the touch; wet with the last traces of a misty evening that slowly burn away with the welcoming rays of even the weakest sunshine.

Within the hour, a horse van will arrive to pack the four ‘chasers running in the last races of the season; it will be followed by three cars full of staff to see to the horses while others stay behind to clean stalls, clean tack, clean and generally care for the remaining horses. It is a comfortable rhythm that they all know well, both humans and beasts are comfortable in their routines.

Detective Greg Lestrade is only dimly aware of the busy sounds of the racing stables bleeding through the window on the wall behind the headboard of the bed that he is sprawled on, as of this moment no longer sleeping off a pretty major hangover. The soft cacophony of hustling footsteps, hollowly thudding hoof beats that give off the occasional _ting_ of metal striking gravel and idling engines give off a vibe of life not unlike that of a busy police station. His mushy brain is full of cobwebs and strange unconnected pictures from the night before. There is no warning when the image of his hand covering Mycroft’s on the gearshift of the car Mycroft is driving slams into the forefront of his memories. He sucks in a lungful of air then sits up too quickly, the sounds of little snaps and pops of every vertebra in his spine and shoulders assaulting his ears as his hands fly to his very achy head. He squints against the brightness of the day that is forcing its way into the room between the cracks of the shade then takes a deep breath to steady himself before he begins taking stock of his situation.

He is still dressed in his khakis from last night, except that his shoes and socks have been removed. He finds them neatly laid out on the bedside table, along with a small white bottle of aspirin and a glass of water. He shakes a couple of the white pills from the bottle and chases them down with the water, glad that someone was thinking that far ahead for him. Greg sits with his eyes closed for a few moments, considering how stupid it is to get drunk and apparently flirt like a besotted teenager when you are forty years old.

When the headache has slowed to a dull roar, he makes his way towards the bathroom on stiff legs. He does not pay much attention to anything until he is zipping up his fly. Hanging on the towel rack is two freshly laundered towels, a pair of jeans, a light blue button up shirt and a dark blue jumper. After further exploration, he finds a pair of socks. Who is he to turn down a welcoming gesture such as this one? He has the whole weekend off, after all, so might as well try and get it back on track; hopefully he did not blow everything too badly last night. The first blast of water is ice cold though it warms up to steaming in a matter of seconds. Greg washes himself and his hair with the essentials placed on the shelf in the shower; he shaves quickly using the new razor hanging on the mirror under the showerhead.

He towels off and dresses with a quickness born from too many after-midnight telephone calls where he was expected to not only show up at the crime scene but be alert and on his best game. A toothbrush in a cellophane-wrapped box lies on the counter beside the sink. He considers calling in to check on things as he brushes his teeth, and then lets the thought run right out of his head: Detective Dimmock can surely handle anything that could come up in his absence; besides, he has not had an entire day off in months, let alone a whole weekend.

Greg has to admit to himself that when he steps out of that bathroom he is actually feeling somewhat human again. The aspirin has helped the headache fade back some and the clothes fit him very well, even if the jeans are a little snug. He stretches as he steps into the hallway from the guest room, carrying his shoes in one hand.  

“Ah, Detective, good morning.” Mycroft calls from his seat at the kitchen table where he holds up a steaming cup of coffee as Greg turns the corner in that direction. Mycroft is impeccable dressed as always: today he is wearing a black jumper made in a similar style to the one left for Greg; a royal purple collar from the button-down underneath sticks out artfully from the neck in a show of solidarity for the riders that are working for him today. Greg gives him a nod and settles into the chair next to Mycroft’s; close but not so close that they accidentally touch one another. “I assume the essentials that we managed to procure for you were acceptable?”

“Yes, thank you.” Greg brushes imaginary lint off the front of his jumper to hide this ridiculous case of nerves he seems to have come down with in the last twenty-four hours.

Evangeline, the cook, brings Greg a cup of coffee and a spoon, indicating the creamer and sugar that has already been laid out. Mycroft is obviously drinking his black; Greg forgoes the additives and takes a sip, glad for the caffeine. He watches Evangeline as she is busy at the hob for a few moments, then turns towards his host. Might as well get the uncomfortable part of this conversation out of the way now; at least he could still go home and salvage the weekend if need be; somehow, though, Greg cannot believe that he was _that_ far off.

Mycroft speaks first, however, beating him to the punch. “Last night was wonderful, detective; I stick by my word, however, I am a gentleman.”

At some point in his memories much later, Greg will blame the hangover on his sudden fascination with the other man’s ice blue eyes. And that mouth. When Mycroft smiles at him, the action of creating the expression lights up his entire face; Greg is powerless to it and smiles back then wonders what kind of fool he really looks like.

“Good, that is settled then. I am assuming that you would enjoy a day at the races?” Mycroft sips politely from his mug in an effort to hide the blush on his cheeks.

What Greg really wants to say is _For God’s sake, Mycroft, I’d take you right here on the table if you would so kindly oblige me_. However, he answers, “Absolutely. I would love it.”

^=^

The clubhouse at Aimtree is posh and completely overdone and Greg finds himself only slightly uncomfortable surrounded by so much money. The front wall really is not a wall but a set of huge, pristine floor-to-ceiling windows that face the finish line. Greg stands in front of them, seltzer water in hand, and studies the view. Mycroft is across the room, networking with his peers, mimosa in hand and studying the detective. Mycroft politely excuses himself and crosses to Greg, where he gently cups the other man’s elbow. Greg turns to him wordlessly with a smile; something deep within Mycroft is beginning to thaw and the warmth that spreads through him at Greg’s expression is enough to make him-almost-giggle. He does not giggle, however, merely smiles.

“The first race will begin in about thirty minutes. Would you like to go down and see the horses?”

“Sure.”

Without even trying to do so, they are walking shoulder-to-shoulder through the corridor then down a flight of steps and out into the sunshine. It is hard to say who is leading and who is following. The air around them is brisk and full of the sounds of race day, with just a hint of melancholy for the end of the season. As they walk towards the fence, Mycroft points out things of interest and Greg listens, if not hanging on every single word, simply enjoying being out and about with this personable Holmes.

The stables are a buzzing hive of grooms, hot walkers, stable hands, jockeys and trainers. They finally stop at the end of a row of stalls that have all been draped with the Holmes’ family royal purple, black and white colors. One stall is empty, though Greg recognizes the three other horses who stick their noses out in his direction. He reads the little card taped to the door of the empty stall and smiles at the horse’s name of Silver Blaze, thinking for sure that it should ring a bell. He cannot seem to remember a single name of any of the horses at the stable and thinks that as soon as he gets back he should make it a priority to remember at least some of them. There is the sound of horse shoes striking concrete and Mycroft calls to him.

“Detective Lestrade, this is Miles Kileen, one of our top-winning jockeys. Miles, this is detective Lestrade.” Miles steps around the horse the groom is holding to shake Greg’s hand. Miles is not quite as tall as Greg, about twenty years old and has a happy, open face. Small tendrils of what Greg is sure is a mop of unruly ginger hair poke out from under his helmet as he adjusts the chin strap. They all walk out towards the parade grounds together. When they finally come to a stop in the line up, Mycroft does not give Miles a leg-up as is tradition on flat-racing tracks; rather, he holds a stirrup steady in a token gesture of gratitude.

“Miles, you know what to do. Hold him steady until the second-to-last jump and then give him his head. “ Mycroft fuses with the big black horse’s forelock that is falling down onto his white face, neatly stowing it under the headstall of the bridle while the big gelding noses at Mycroft’s face in return. Mycroft gently pushes him away. 

“Yes, sir. Blaze knows what he’s doing out there, I’m just the monkey on his back to keep him from forgetting it’s work and not pleasure.” Miles laughs and pats the horse’s glossy neck then takes up the reins in his gloved hands and they head towards the starting line.

Mycroft sets the palm of his hand against the small of Greg’s back as they watch the horse walk away, momentarily hypnotized by the sway of muscular hindquarters in a way only appreciated by horse people. Greg notes the tiniest spot of white on Silver Blaze’s right hand heel, but not being too keen on horse colors, does not mention it.

The crowd back to the clubhouse has thinned out considerably. Mycroft opens the door and Greg steps in and almost steps directly on a shorter man who has stopped right in front of the entrance; his back toward them. “Excuse me.” Greg says as he makes to step around the man.

James Moriarity tugs his mirrored sunglasses down his straight, neat nose. He raises well-arched eyebrows and laughs with a high, falsely humorous tone. “Mycroft Holmes and his newest _boy toy_ , I presume. Where’s your bratty sibling? Still licking his wounds like the worthless cur that he is?” James holds the silver frame of his sunglasses pinched between the index finger and thumb of his left hand where a diamond signet ring flashes in the sunlight that comes through the door Mycroft is still holding open. Everything about Moriarty screams at Greg to run away and never return but he is held fast by a pair of eyes that are so dark they are almost black. Later, he will remember them as _soulless_. In that instant, he can see how this man could very well be a cold-blooded killer.

Greg’s attention is pulled from James to Mycroft. Mycroft has not moved from the doorway. He is standing at his full height, looking down at James as if he has stepped on something nasty.

“James. I have nothing to say to you. Kindly move on.” Mycroft’s voice is tight and controlled. Greg moves slightly so that his back is towards Mycroft, just on the off chance things get ugly.

“Mycroft, Mycroft. I have as much right to be here as you do…more in fact, actually. Daddy wants ta watch the horsies run.” He sings a little, his voice wavering like a child’s as he rocks on his heels.

Maybe a child like Damien, thinks Greg as his eyes rove the room, automatically checking to see if Moriarty has backup. He cannot help his “cop instinct” that is going ape shit at this very moment, telling him to watch his step.

Mycroft finally moves from the entrance. Not wanting to waste any more words on James, he nods to Greg and makes to walk back towards the viewing room. His eyes are angry and he is almost shaking from controlling his rage. As he begins to pass Moriarty, however, Moriarity reaches out and grabs Mycroft’s forearm, his perfectly manicured nails digging into the flesh under Mycroft’s black jumper.

“I am going to win, Holmes.” James’ voice is low and deep so that anyone who happened by would be unable to hear. “I _always_ win.”

“Let. Me. Go.” Mycroft states in a voice full of frozen venom. He tightens the muscles in his arm and stares Moriarty down until he loosens his hold, though he does not let go. “I know what you are up to, James. It is only a matter of time before you are caught.” Mycroft hisses between clenched teeth.

James actually breaks into a cackling bout of laughter. The emotion does not show in his eyes. “Just because my dog isn’t here doesn’t mean I wouldn’t take you _down_ this minute, Holmes.” Moriarity hisses right back, standing on the toes of his polished black wing-tips to reach Mycroft’s ear. He pats Mycroft’s forearm. “But!” He smirks. “This time at least _I_ will be playing by the rules.”

Mycroft shakes his head as if brushing off a particularly nasty horse fly. “I would not count on it, Moriarty.” Mycroft jerks his arm from James’ grasp and turns away from him. Greg watches Moriarity closely as Mycroft joins him, half expecting the little bastard to have something up his sleeve. Even he cannot suppress the chill that runs up his spine when he realizes his back is unprotected. James’ loud manical laughter follows them back to the lounge. Mycroft has the distinct impression that he has not yet escaped unscathed. He tries to settle down and enjoy the company and the race. As they settle into a pair of seats in the corner of the room, they still have a great view of the track and it gives Greg a chance to talk to him.

“Will you be alright?” His brows knit in concern.

Mycroft shakes his head and sips a fresh mimosa. “I will be.”

^=^

Moriarity crosses the room in three strides. He enquires at the desk about the use of a telephone and is permitted into a private office. He lifts the receiver then cradles the handset against his shoulder as he dials a long-distance number. He speaks brusquely to the person on the other end of the line; when hangs up a fiendish grin plays across his lips. He makes a second call; this one much closer to home, then hangs up and goes back to the lobby to await the results of the first race.


	12. Soul Music

John expects that the conversation he and Sherlock are going have about the little _thing_ that happened between them in the laundry room will be awkward, to say the least. Strangely, it‘s not awkward at all: because it does not happen. Over the past few days, there seems to be no strain between them, though they are not exactly as comfortable as they had been with each other before it happened, either. John wonders whether to breach the subject because he seriously wants to know exactly what he did wrong-if for nothing else, so that he will never repeat his mistake. On the other hand, he does not want to go back to being completely alone after it took so long for the two of them to begin to trust each other. He has to admit to himself that he has begun to enjoy his companionship.

He studies the younger man covertly behind his coffee and scrambled eggs. For some reason, he is taken by the glossy black curls that give Sherlock at once a manic and quite angelic look. He eats with his green eyes fixed on his plate, or perhaps fixed on a point somewhere beyond where John can follow him. John fights the urge to reach over and rest his palm against Sherlock’s shoulder. He is so close to blurting out his question, though he is somehow managing to rein it in through sheer willpower.

John’s control has almost broken through his self-made walls when he is saved by a knock at the door.

John answers it and soon finds himself with an armload of packages and envelopes, including one rather long rectangular box marked FRAGILE in several places; it is post marked from London. He hands it to Sherlock who grasps it as a genuine smile overtakes his face. John grins back, completely oblivious to the contents, it simply feels good to smile. There is no time to ask, however, before Sherlock is gone from the kitchen, practically pirouetting on his bare heels. Within minutes, the soft strains of a violin begin winding their way through the house. John remains in his seat at the table for a bit, just listening, unsure whether to be dumbfounded at this newly expressed talent or if he should head to Sherlock’s room to see if he would be permitted as an audience.

He tries to turn his attention to the rest of the mail: one package is for Tracy from her mom. He stands and sets it on the counter where she will see it when she gets home later. The melody humming through the otherwise quiet house has changed from soft scales to a mournful tune. Tracy and Mark and several of the other stable hands have headed out for the day to relax a little after the craziness of racing season. Of course, if he knows his daughter as well as he thinks he does, he knows she will have them all on horseback winding through some trails at some point; most likely at Brandy Donovan’s place. He makes a mental note to call down to the Donovan’s house later just to check up on them all. Sometimes he forgets that they aren't really _kids_ anymore, but those odd creatures known to the world as _teenagers_. He rips open the rest of the mail, sorting the bills from the bullcrap and cutting open a new box of checks that really should go right to the office. He pushes his chair away from the table, fully intending to grab his coat from the back of the door to do just that but the curiosity is simply too strong.

John casually moves towards the bedrooms really not thinking about much at all now except that haunting melody. He has nowhere else to be today, and if this would help him learn a little more about his new friend (who he would really like to be _more_ ) then he is willing to give a little. He raises a hand to give a tap to the door when it opens.

Sherlock stands with the beautiful instrument tucked under his cheek, the bow between the fingers of the hand he has used to turn the knob. He does not say anything, but that is one of those things that are so impressive to John about this man: Sherlock says so much with his eyes that words are pointless. Somehow John gets the idea that he’s the only person who has ever felt that way.

“May I?” John asks. The bow is swept through the air with finesse in a gesture towards the armchair just on the other side of the bed. John drops into it, pointedly not looking at the bed at all, after pushing a bunch of packing material out of his way. He sits back, putting his hands together in his lap and looks up expectantly. Sherlock turns away from him so that, as he begins to play, John is able to once again take in the way the muscles of his torso under his tight long-sleeved T-shirt as he dips and sways, obviously getting into the dynamics of the music. When he turns to face John, his eyes are closed, his expression is serene in the filtered light from the window. 

John is mesmerized. He is also surprised when he finds that he recognizes some of the melodies that Sherlock is gracefully pulling from the instrument cradled in his arms. He wonders if _Too Late for Goodbye_ is intentional. Of course, by the time he has hit on _Crazy for You_ , John is in on the little joke that he truly hopes is not a joke at all, not really.

John leans his head back against the chair and closes his eyes. Sherlock plays so well that the change in tempo and tune is practically seamless. John falls into a sort of half-sleep and remains that way until there is silence and a weight across his legs. When he opens his eyes, Sherlock is watching him closely from his perch on John’s lap; John takes in the strong thighs on both sides of his own and the emerald eyes and wonders if he is passing the scrutiny he sees there. John knows that _something_ is happening here, so he waits.

After what seems like a thousand years, Sherlock finally speaks and his voice is low and calm, his thoughts honed and made precise through the actions of his fingers and the movement of his still-healing body. He still watches John intensely, checking to see if his words will be betrayed by his body language. He knows he overstepped some hidden boundary the other night but is equally unsure of how to make things right between them. “You did not ask.”

John understands clearly the part that is left out: _about why I ran away from you when you touched me._ After all, he has not spent all these years around animals that only communicate in their own language of signs and expressions to miss something so obvious.“No.” He answers. “I did not.”

Sherlock knows the truth when he sees it. He shifts a little against John’s lap, very much aware of the heat growing between them. His eyes rove over John’s face, searching for any warning sign that he has gone too far. As before, there are none. He leans in towards John, a little closer and that feels like he is staring over the side of a swinging bridge. “Why?” The question is a faint whisper that touches John’s cheek like a butterfly kiss.

John holds his ground, keeping his hands on the cushion of the chair and _not_ wrapping them around Sherlock’s thighs the way he is craving to do. He stares right back at the taller man who has forced himself completely into John’s personal space like some sort of giant feline demanding attention.

John finds that he quite likes it and decides that he really, really wants more of it.

“I am not sure, Sherlock. Maybe I felt that I could trust you enough at that point that you would tell me what I did wrong…”

Sherlock cuts him off by shaking his head from side to side vigorously, causing curls to bounce and cascade over his forehead. He pushes the majority of them back with one hand. “No. You did nothing wrong.” He sits up straighter again, though he has moved even closer and their groins are one wiggle away from interested to intimate.

John’s gaze moves to where Sherlock’s hands are gripping the arms of the chair, long fingers curled over the edges those of a rock climber hanging on for dear life. “No, Sherlock, you don’t need to be so tense around me. Haven’t you figured that out yet?” He gently pries Sherlock’s fingers from the chair, causing him to shift his weight again. John can feel his ass against his thighs. He holds both of Sherlock’s hands in his own now.

Sherlock gasps in surprise when John moves his hands from the chair. He will never be able to describe the feeling to anyone—how in the world do you explain an electric current between two people to someone who has never felt it? He places both feet flat against the floor in an effort to steady himself and then starts talking. He tells John about the day the horse crashed with him against the last fence all those months ago; how he woke up in hospital fearing he would be blind and deaf forever. He describes his injuries and the pain. When he gets to the injuries to his testicles, he looks away from John, finishing up with “I’ve never been exactly normal, John, but that was mental. Now I am physically...” Sherlock’s voice actually threatens to break, “broken.”

John lets go Sherlock’s hands in order to lay a palm against his cheek.  “Sherlock, look at me.” When the priceless emeralds that shield an exhausted soul are locked onto his, John says tenderly “You've got to be kidding me.” Sherlock tilts his head. “Is that really all you think of me?” 

“I’ve had relationships before, John. I know how it works.” He says to hide the fact that he is intrigued at the mix of John's English accent and American colloquialisms. 

“Apparently, no, you don’t.” John’s blue eyes flash with ferocity. “In all this time we have spent together....actually, no. Let me start again.” John takes a gulp of air, this time giving in and running his hand from Sherlock’s cheek to the back of his neck, pushing through soft curls with his fingers. Sherlock closes his eyes for a moment making John think about how he looked playing the violin. 

“Sherlock, in the amount of time that we have known each other, I have enjoyed our companionship, that is, once we worked out the misunderstandings.” John cracks a tiny smile and Sherlock twists his lips in acknowledgement.

“There you are.” John whispers then runs his fingertips across the back of Sherlock’s neck. The skin grows warm under his touch so he pulls enough to show his intent yet keeps his hand loose enough to permit Sherlock to back off if he is so inclined. When their lips touch it is more than physical, it is a meeting of two people who have been so alone so much in their lives; it is tentative and questioning, the hunger from their first kiss multiplied exponentially through a kaleidoscope of emotions neither man is willing to discuss with words. It is good, though, and when they break they only pull away a short distance to catch their breaths. John still has one hand on Sherlock’s neck and the other against his cheek, one thumb rubbing gentle circles against a sharp cheekbone. Sherlock’s hands are resting against John’s shoulders and he uses them now as a sort of winch to pull himself closer to John as if he is a planet consisting of all of the gravity in the universe.

“Are you alright with this?” John whispers against Sherlock’s mouth. The answer he receives is simply another, deeper kiss this time, Sherlock’s tongue brushing against the roof of his mouth in an invitation that John can no longer ignore. When Sherlock’s hands find their way under John’s shirt, John stands, cradling Sherlock’s ass in his palms and moves them to the bed. He rolls them over so that he is resting with his hands on either side of Sherlock’s head, their torsos pressed together, hips lazily grinding against one another.

Together they lose all track of time and sense of their surroundings as they climb the golden ladder to the heavens. John misses the sound of Tracy coming into the house and retrieving her package off the counter. She listens to the weak moans that seep through the walls then smiles to herself as she heads back out the front door; she has more than one reason to be thrilled that the two men who so obviously admire each other have finally stopped dancing about and got on with it.

^=^

Back in Mark’s car, Tracy stares down at the items in the black box she has just unwrapped. Mark senses her hesitation and reaches over to pat her arm.

“I am not so sure I can do this, like…now. You know?” Tracy admits.

“It will be fine babe. No one is really going to get hurt.” Mark assures her as he puts the car into gear. “Wanna go back to my place and not think about it for a while?”

She turns a warm smile in his direction, closing the black box and sliding it under the seat. She scoots across the bench so that their legs are touching and lays her hand in his lap. He chuckles a little and wraps his arm around her shoulders. Tracy turns up the stereo and sings along to _Hysteria_ as they pull out onto the main road.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, there's that.  
> Also-some editing done to fix some mistakes and add a few passages that I felt were necessary.


	13. Dueling Princes

Noon has come and gone when John wakes up with a very warm weight against his back. Memories of their morning are as comfortable as the pillow his head rests upon. He rolls his cheek against the soft cotton, hearing the faint scrape of stubble as he does so. There is a little groan behind him just before a long, lean arm wraps about his waist and hauls him in even closer. John is thrilled to find out that Sherlock Holmes is such a kitten after…

Oh God.

John’s heart begins pounding and for a second he cannot breath. What has he done?

“John.” Says a very deep, very sleepy voice from somewhere in the vicinity of his shoulder blades. Hot breath tickles his bare skin, sending little sparks down his spine.

John’s mind is whirring and attempting to find any and every single excuse he can come up with and ways to explain to his employer how he just bedded the man who is equal to what basically amounts to the crown prince of the entire Holmes Empire.

“John.” The arm about his waist has turned into a broad palm over his chest, pushing against the place where his heart is currently attempting to either break of out the prison of his ribcage or burst forth from his throat. The heat against his skin is a miracle that stops his mind and acts as a ground for his muddled thoughts.

Sherlock’s voice behind him has snapped into something more lucid, more aware. “John, it wouldn’t matter.” There is a soft kiss on the back of his neck and a pulling sensation against his torso as Sherlock sits up so that his mouth is directly over John’s ear. “Even if Father were still alive, it would not be a problem.”

“Really?” John asks, his mouth dry and burning as the Sahara. He wonders what Sherlock would think to his eyes as wide as dinner plates.

“Yes, John, really.” Now there is a very hot and very wet swipe of tongue against his ear that makes him shudder. A tiny chuckle vibrates Sherlock’s muscular pecs against John’s ribcage. He flips over and catches Sherlock’s face with his hands, allowing their kiss to heat up in a slow burn. With a smacking sound, John pushes him away enough to talk.

“How can you be so sure?” He knew Sieger always seemed to be an accepting and open-minded person, but this was unfamiliar territory as far as the Holmes patriarch is concerned.

“If I answer you, can we get back to this?” Sherlock slides a hot palm between them and wraps his fingers around John. John just nods. “It is the reason my mother left him.”

Oh. Alright, then.

It will be another two hours before they decide to vacate Sherlock’s bed, and that decision is made for them because the telephone in the kitchen is ringing off the hook.

^=^

The instant Greg turns down the long, elegant driveway towards the stables he knows something is wrong. He jumps out of the car so fast that he almost forgets to close the door behind him. Everything on the grounds seems to be in its place…except for Mycroft Holmes standing in the doorway of the big barn with his back against the wall and a cigarette in his mouth. Even from this distance, Greg can see the tightness about his face, the jerky movements of his hand as he puffs. Greg strides down towards the barns, his mind already made up to help as much as he can with whatever has happened.

“Mycroft?” He asks as he approaches. Mycroft does not move, instead flicking the ash of the end of the cigarette. He takes a deep drag so that when he speaks upon his exhale, smoke flows from his mouth into the air as if to capture his words. “Silver Blaze was a ringer.”

Greg steps in close and lays a hand on Mycroft’s arm. “What?” The last thing he remembers before they left the track was the triumphant look in Mycroft’s eyes when his horses beat Moriarty’s in every single ‘chase they were up against each other.

Mycroft takes another drag. “The stewards called round this morning, allegedly on some anonymous advice. I took them directly to Blaze’s stall and they pulled him out, took him to the wash rack and proceeded to wash black paint off his legs.”

Greg remembers the tiny white spot he saw in passing on Blaze’s heel that day. Now he realizes its significance and he is as devastated as Mycroft at the news. “Who is the other horse?”

“Well, now, _that_ is my other problem.” Mycroft finishes the cigarette and puts it out against the wall, placing the burnt butt in his jacket pocket. When he notices Greg’s eyebrows going up, he tells him that it is safer than taking a risk around all the hay and wood. Greg nods.

“I can call the precinct and open a case for a missing horse.” Greg offers.

“Yes, do that. Between you and me, however, we both know where that horse is.” Mycroft shrewdly observes.

Greg nods again. “Gimme a mo.” He gives Mycroft a pat on the shoulder and heads towards the house.

^=^

“Sherlock, it’s Mycroft! Could you get your skinny arse in here, please?” John calls down the hallway towards Sherlock’s bedroom. They really need to work on that, perhaps Sherlock would prefer a separate room? Of course, they have not even yet discussed whether they are going to be in a “proper” relationship. As distasteful as it is, he supposes that they really do need to discuss where they are going from here, and even if there will be a _them_.

John’s thoughts are interrupted by the arrival of a half-naked, tousle-haired six-foot jump jockey. He gives him a wan smile and hands over the phone, quietly noting how the other man is moving better than he was a few short weeks ago.

“Yes, Mycroft.” Sherlock drops heavily into one of the wooden chairs as if he is made of lead.  He spreads his legs wide and rests his arm over the back of another chair, taking up as much space as possible. “No, Mycroft.” John digs through the fridge a little and pulls out the fixings to make sandwiches then switches on the burner under the tea kettle to its lowest setting. He cannot help but chuckle at his shiny new lover’s petulant body language. “Wait, wait, wait.” Sherlock drums his fingers against the table with each word.

“Slow down Mycroft.” John looks behind himself at Sherlock’s closed eyes. He is frowning, making a little row of wrinkles over his nose. He rubs at his temple with the hand not holding the handset. He stills completely, listening intently. “I understand, Mycroft.” Sherlock ends the call and sits at the table with his hand outstretched. Since he looks so upset, John does not argue but merely takes the phone and hangs it up.

He sets a plate with a sandwich and crisps in front of Sherlock, along with a can of cola. Sherlock looks at it all as his stomach gives out a loud grumble. He mumbles something about getting back down to a reasonable racing weight as he dives into the ham, turkey and cheese on rye.

“I thought you’d prefer something with a little more kick than tea.” John says, biting into his own sandwich.  

Sherlock raises an eyebrow but does not say anything else, his gaze seems far away. John reaches out and touches the back of his hand. “What is going on?”

“One of our chasers, a consistent winner this season and last, has turned out to be a ringer.” Sherlock’s voice is flat.

“How the hell did that happen?” John can only imagine the inquests, the angry owners and the entire mess that is going to follow such an announcement.

“Mycroft has a friend of his, Detective Lestrade, working on the case. Apparently since Silver Blaze isn’t who he is supposed to be, Mister Holmes Enterprises has a top-class horse missing right out from under his incredibly long nose.” Sherlock says with a bit of satisfaction at the dig at his older brother.

“Ok, I get that he deserves that, Sherlock, though I cannot imagine something like this happening without Mycroft noticing it.” John holds out a crisp as if he is a teacher pointing at a blackboard presentation.

Sherlock sighs and pushes his plate away. As much as he thought he could avoid it, he is going to have to tell John about Moriarity. John watches closely as Sherlock leans back in his chair and crosses his arms over his chest.  “It is obviously an inside job: someone who knew when to switch the horses and could keep up with the concealment. Apparently they were using a vegetable-based paint. Silver Blaze is a tall black Thoroughbred with a white blaze on his face and right front sock. This horse, the ringer, has four white feet but a similar marking on his face; they are the same height within millimeters. Apparently it wasn’t that difficult to keep his legs coated, because we do not bathe them as much in the winter, except on race days. Anyone casually cruising through the barn would never have noticed the deception.”

John nods, thinking that maybe it is time to do an inspection of the horses they have wintering here. As always, Sherlock seems to pick John’s thoughts right out of the air. “John, _I_ am here. I’ve been helping Mark and Jeff out in the stables, and Tracy has been in and out as well. Somehow, between them and me, I don’t think we have to worry about the same issue here.”

“Okay, I can buy that. I thought you were just helping out to rebuild your stamina.” John takes his plate to the sink and makes up two cups of tea. He has the impression that this conversation is nowhere near over. He settles back into his chair, facing Sherlock so that he can study the other man’s expressions as he speaks. “There is more, no?” John asks.

Once again Sherlock gets the far-away look in his peridot eyes. Everything around them goes silent for a while. John sips his tea, noticing that Sherlock appears to have forgotten about his. When he turns his gaze back onto John, it is as if he has made a decision about something _big_.

“John, I told you I had a relationship before.” He states, avoiding the concerned look in John’s baby blues.

John nods, particularly noting the singular. “Yes.”

“For a while I captured the attention of one of our neighbors and competitors, James Moriarty. I was a really stupid twenty-eight year old, hellbent on winning every ‘chase I could enter. I kept my weight down and once in a while even rode for some of our pickiest owners. Mostly, though, I stayed with our own string.” Sherlock seems to remember the mug in front of him and take a drink. John is silent.

“You already know all that, of course.” John nods. He has put most of it together by going through old news clippings and other family memorabilia. Mycroft even sent over a couple of photographs of Sherlock in the winner’s circle, clad in the familiar purple, white and black silks. In both of them he is looking at the camera as if considering dismantling it.

Something must show on John’s face, because Sherlock smirks. “The horse that fell with me, I fully believe it is all down to Moriarity or one of his associates.”

“How can you be sure it wasn’t a freak accident?”

“John.”

“Fine.” He studies Sherlock a little closer. “I am not going to ask you why you believe that, because you are going to tell me that there was something between the two of you, right?”

Sherlock huffs. “There was _something_ , but not like you are thinking. I was nothing more to him than a pretty face and a winning streak.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Why?” Sherlock is no longer looking at John; rather he is staring down into the dregs of his cup as if trying to divine something from them.

“Sherlock, look at me.” As much as he hates to admit it, they _have_ to have this conversation before things go any farther. Sherlock finally meets John’s level gaze with his own and John is struck by the timidity he sees there. “No. None of that.” John stands up to move around the table so that he is standing beside Sherlock. “Come here.” He steps back, encouraging Sherlock to follow him to the sofa in the sitting room. He sits down and pats the cushion next to him.

Sherlock settles down, though the tension throughout his body is almost palpable. He knows that _this_ is where it is all going to end. Five, Four, Three, Two….

“Sherlock, stop it.” He is mystified that John seems to be reading him as well as he does other people, so he stops and just watches.

“I am only going to say this once, so pay attention. Got it?” John is sitting so that he is facing Sherlock. Sherlock is facing the windows directly in front of them. He does nod, however, to show that he is listening.

John takes a deep breath. “Sherlock Holmes, there is something absolutely fascinating about you. Though I was opposed to you coming here, for fear that you were being sent to force me into giving up my life, there was something…just something. Even Tracy saw it.” John shakes his head back and forth and rolls his eyes. He clears his throat. “Anyway, I have never spent much time thinking ahead, but I have to admit that I am very glad we took the step we took and that we are sitting here today, even if the circumstances that brought you here are less than ideal.”

Sherlock begins to slowly move himself so that he is facing John as the other man speaks. His expression is stoic, as if waiting for the axe to fall. He refuses to allow himself to hope.

John takes both of his hands in his own. “I know it seems fast, but I want to share my life with you, Sherlock. I’ve been alone…too long. If you do not feel that way, I totally get it. Who wants a thirty-seven year old man with a teenage daughter? I get it. I will back off and leave you alone, I am sure you could take the pick of the litter.” It is foolish but John can feel tears prickling the back of his eyes. He fights them off.

“No.” Sherlock replies.  “I feel the same.” His normal booming baritone is quiet, almost a whisper.

“Good then.” John lets out a giggle on the tail end of the exhale of the breath he was not even aware that he was holding. “Do we understand each other?” He is thinking that perhaps they can leave these uncomfortable issues alone now. “Are you expected to return to London?” He asks, hoping to turn the conversation back to the matter that started it all off.

“No.” Sherlock is now leaning into John’s space, one hand on his chest and the other on John’s hip, almost as if he is afraid John is going to get up and run away. “I need to tell you about Moriarty, John.” In for a penny, in for a pound. "We were somthing akin to friends at first, then it all became about winning. He would stop at nothing and I was swept up in it all right along with him. The last time I saw him, he attempted to pull me back into his ring of cohorts. I turned him down and within seven days I was waking up in hospital."

“Alright. John pulls Sherlock closer into him. Of course there is more, so much more. By the time he is done talking, his head is in John’s lap with John’s hands idly combing through his hair. There are tears on John’s face. “I’m sorry, Sherlock, I never knew.”

“No one did, John. He is such a pretty, pretty face and the public loves him. His horses usually win except when they are head to head with ours and all of those things I have been listing? No one can touch him.”

“My god, Sherlock.” John continues to pet him until Mark and Jeff burst through the front door, voices raised as they call out for him.


	14. Many Types of Poison

“Tracy! Oh my god! Sherlock, I need emergency services NOW!” John shouts as he yanks open the stall door so hard that the top half bounces off the wall and threatens to smack him in the face. He drops instantly to his knees beside his daughter who is in the throes of a convulsion, not noticing that his jeans are sliding down below his waistline: in his rush from the house, he completely forgot his belt. Tracy’s back is arched and every muscle in her body is rigid. Her eyes are wide open, staring and seeing nothing.

 A rusty colored trickle of blood paints her lips. John fears that her throat is so constricted she cannot breathe so he angles her neck the best he can at the same time that she begins to thrash wildly.  All he can do is hold onto her and hope that she does not hurt herself beyond repair.

It seems to take hours before an ambulance arrives, followed by a police cruiser. Tracy has gone from seizing to passing out cold and John is terrified. His only consolation is that Sherlock was close enough on his heels to hear him and react immediately.

John does not move as the paramedics step into the stall to being their preliminary examination. He explains as much as he knows and then they are guiding his daughter’s still body onto a stretcher. John stands up on trembling legs and follows them blindly, absent-mindedly yanking his jeans up by the empty belt loops. The paramedics push the stretcher into place and as he climbs up into the tight seat beside her, he grabs one of her hands. Just before the doors close and they are driven towards the nearest emergency room, John realizes that Sherlock is nowhere to be seen. Numbness is spreading through his body as he remembers the woman found in a similar position not so long ago, already beyond reach of any help.

^=^

“John?” An impossibly deep voice queries from the doorway of Tracy’s room a few hours later. John raises his head from where it has been resting on his arms against the mattress where his eyes find Sherlock as he stands with his gloved hands buried in the pockets of the long coat he brought from London with him. He seems a stranger here in this moment, an interloper from another land. His face is shadowed due to the dim light in the room though John can make out his expression enough to know he has something to say.

But, John is angry and hurting so the first thing he says to his lover is not ‘thank you for getting the paramedics there in record time’ or ‘you seem like you have something to tell me’, it is “Where have you been?” Which, in retrospect, he will realize is a little unfair.

To Sherlock’s credit, however, he takes it all in stride. In the racing business, sometimes hospitals are your second home after the stables. He fiddles with the object in his pocket to give John the chance to calm himself enough that Sherlock can approach him with his ideas. In the mean time, his eyes rove over the machines and IVs hooked to Tracy in every manner. Somewhat peculiarly, he reflects on his own actions that afternoon. As soon as John began shouting, he had already started back towards the house. He called for the ambulance, then immediately after called his brother. He is beginning to hypothesize that these troubles are related. When he relayed that information to Mycroft, his brother seemed unsurprised and promised to overnight him the information that he and the detective have been using to build their own case in the wake of all the difficulties. In the mean time, he agrees with Mycroft that they need to work these angles on their own, without getting the law involved. He is certain that there is more here than meets the eye.

From Mycroft, Sherlock learned about the woman found dead at the Pennsylvania farm before he arrived. He wants to ask John about that, though something inside holds him back. Perhaps in another time, another place he would just blurt it out; but now seeing John’s haunted expression, he simply cannot. He flips the object in his pocket over, deftly avoiding the business end of it.

“Sherlock, I’m sorry.” John slices cleanly through Sherlock’s thoughts. Sherlock moves from the doorway to grab the arm of the only other chair in the room. It scrapes across the floor as he drags it next to John, who seems to be unbothered by the grating sound of the metal legs raking across the linoleum. John leans towards him as Sherlock pulls the object out of his pocket and presents it to the other man where its shines in a sinister manner against the black leather on his open palm. John does not touch it, though his eyes move from it to Tracy. “What have you done?” He asks her in a plaintive voice. She gives no answer.

There is silence now, only broken by the steady beats of the heart monitor. John’s grip on Tracy’s hand tightens. “Tell me.” He all but orders his lover.

“I found this tossed to the side in the stall where Tracy had been lying.” He holds it up so that the glass vial part of the syringe catches enough light to see that there is still some liquid in the bottom of it. “I am unsure what it is, but I will be sending it to London so that question may be answered.”

“Why not here?” John asks without taking his eyes off Tracy’s face.

Sherlock really wants to explain about what Mycroft told him, but there is a risk that they would be overheard here. If not now, then never is the time to trust the bond they have been developing between them, so he simply answers with one word. “Moriarty.”

John finally meets his eye with an resigned, sad expression. Even so, he gives a little tilt of his head to show Sherlock that he understands completely. “In the mean time, there will be an official investigation.”

“Yes.”

“They will not find anything other than what is apparent from the blood tests they have run today?”

“I am unsure, John. At this point, I have no way of knowing what she took…”

“How do you know she took it and it wasn’t forced onto her?” John’s face has clouded over as if he cannot believe his daughter would choose to inject herself with some unknown drug. He starts to stand up which only results in a half-sitting, half-standing position that is in no way intimidating.

“John.” Sherlock says, gently pulling his hand away from Tracy’s. He gently turns her hand over so that John can clearly see her palm. A single hole is almost invisible in the meat just below her thumb except that they are looking for it. John then realizes that Sherlock never actually said that she intentionally injected anything; this could still be an accident. He caresses her hand, rubbing his thumb over the slightly raised spot in a soft manner that Sherlock feels viscerally. A tiny little spark of heat travels down his spine and he leans closer so that when John moves his head back to him, their eyes are level.

John kisses Sherlock very tenderly, a kiss for comfort. Sherlock has peeled his gloves off and is gripping John’s neck pressing their lips together tightly when they are interrupted. Mark has entered the room, taken one look at Tracy and spun around as if to rush back out. In the same instant, Sherlock is up and grasping him by the arm. Mark’s expression is haunted, his eyes are red from crying and his entire body is trembling. Sherlock moves into his space in order to force the young man towards John and away from the door. He holds him tightly with one hand, the other pulling his now vacated chair against the back of Mark’s legs. Mark falls into the chair and Sherlock does not let go, only shifts his hand from Mark’s arm to grip at his shoulder. “What do you know?” He asks in a dangerous voice made dark by the anger that he is feeling on John’s behalf.

Mark’s head drops into his hands. “No one was supposed to really get hurt.” He mumbles to his chest.

“Say that again.” John’s voice is sharp enough to cut glass.

Mark looks at him, opens his mouth to speak and breaks down completely.

^=^

Mycroft stands alone in front of a large white marble headstone, wearily fighting the feeling that his life is crashing down around him. He never speaks to his father here, because he knows it is foolish to have a conversation with a pile of dusty bones, yet something about the place gives him unquestioned comfort. He leans on the umbrella he has brought out today, his right leg crossed over the left one. The sky is steel gray, heavy with the promise of precipitation; the wind has kicked up and it plays with Mycroft’s long chocolate brown coat that he has not bothered to button up fully.

Mycroft is dressed in a soft tan suit, having just come from the hearing with the stewards. He is lucky that Greg was quick off the mark and had the paperwork in for the missing horse case prior to seeing the stewards: as of now, they are not suspended from racing, though there will be a black mark against them in the future and every winner will have to pass a rigorous inspection. That is not as bad as it could have been. When they continue to win, and he has no doubt that they will, the inspections will only strengthen the wins.

On the other hand, he received a telegram from his brother about John Watson’s sixteen-year-old daughter being rushed to hospital after being found convulsing in one of the empty stalls. Sherlock’s message was short and terse, making no bones about the fact that he needs the information he and Greg have gathered exactly _now_.

The wind howls about him, running playful fingers through his neatly styled auburn hair. Mycroft takes a deep breath to center himself; he deftly touches the cold, unyielding marble atop his father’s headstone and picks his way carefully back down the hill towards his car. He should have time to get home and get the copies to the post office before they close for the day.

^=^

James Moriarty is completely naked. He sits with his legs crossed on the edge of the red wine colored velvet lined pool table with a snifter of brandy in one hand and an ebony-inlaid pool cue in the other. His skin is creamy white without a blemish, save for the long thin one under his ribcage from a juvenile knife fight that he won. His dark brown hair is styled neatly into a perfect ‘v’ at the nape of his neck. There are red claw marks across his shoulders that are beginning to turn pink.

A woman sits on a chaise lounge a few meters away from him looking at him as if she were praying at the feet of some elegantly evil god. She is dressed in a long red formal gown and her ash blonde hair is piled high on top of her head. She sips daintily from the glass of wine in her hand, mindful that her lipstick does not mar the surface. She moves cautiously like a snake handler, always mindful that at any moment the animal could rear back and kill her with a single strike.

“They always said revenge is a dish best served cold, though I have to tell you, baby, that it is as sweet as this vintage.” She holds it up to study the way the light from the tiffany lamp dances across the surface of the deep purple liquid. “Hmmm…reminds me of your eyes.” A mirror rests on the low table in front of her legs, a smattering of white powder residue all that is left of several lines.

“Oh do tell.” Moriarty’s golden tongue licks lightly against his bottom lip as he catalogs every one of the woman’s movements for future use. “Daddy so enjoys happy customers.”

“Why, yes, I do believe he does.” The woman purrs from her seat. She shifts a little so that her dress rides up her legs, letting him know that there is nothing she is unwilling to do.

“Aren’t you the least worried about the girl?” James sips at his brandy, twirling the pool cue like a baton in the other hand.

Patricia gives him a coy smile that hides nothing. Of course she is upset that her daughter was injured, but her mix was perfect. “She should be alright in a few days. That should be enough time for the Sandman to get in and out of there.”

Moriarty laughs. “You should have come to me sooner, lassie, it could have been much more interesting.”

“Well, I am here now, aren’t I?” Patricia watches him over the rim of her glass, always on guard.

“So tell me, what did your ex-husband do that has made you so vengeful? Not that I mind, my dear, not in the least. Inquiring minds wanna know, right?” He finally sets the pool cue down and moves around the chaise to sit opposite Patricia. He settles one hand against the side of her neck, cradling his fingers just below her hyoid. He puts just enough pressure there to remind her not to lie to him. “You and I, we make a great team.”

Patricia closes her eyes then sets her wine glass on the floor, having no argument for that statement. She spins around so that they are now facing each other; Moriarty’s hand has not left her throat. She runs her tongue across her teeth and gazes at him through eye lashes made heavy with mascara. “He walked away from me.” Her voice is almost a hiss as she dares lean in closer to his dangerous mouth. Moriarty’s hand is suddenly a vise on the back of her neck, effectively pinning her in place. He pours the remainder of his brandy down the front of her dress and leans over the middle of the lounge to run his tongue along the scalloped neck. Her brain threatens to explode from the rollercoaster ride of cocaine, alcohol and angry sex. Not for the first time, she is glad she went back to school and mastered Chemistry.

“Oops, now you are going to have to take it all off, sorry!” He sing-songs in a lilting soprano.

Patricia actually giggles as she stands and drops her dress, revealing a red leather corset. “I can’t thank you, enough, Daddy.”

Moriarty is too suave to actually jump over the lounge, but he somehow manages to pull them to the floor without ever actually seeming to move a muscle. _Black mamba_ Patricia thinks as she closes her eyes when Moriarty starts nipping roughly at her bared breasts. 


	15. Scraps of Paper

Mycroft leans back in his leather chair and rubs his eyes. The telephone call that he just concluded is one that was the least expected, and he cannot help but consider how he would feel if the shoe was on the other foot. He sighs deeply then rolls his shoulders to loosen up the muscles there. He sits for a second, hands clasped together on the desk, considering the well-appointed room at large. He grabs the piece of paper he has been taking notes on and folds it up into a neat square that he then slides into the back pocket of his jeans. The silver clock on the wall informs him that it is not yet nine AM. He stretches a little as he gets to his feet then leaves the room, switching the light off as he exits.  

As he strolls through the house, he gathers his thoughts, considering the entire tragedy from every angle. He drops into the little chair beside the front door to slip on his barn boots. As he pulls them up over his calves, he thinks that he needs a little more than just some fresh air. He unbuttons the button on his long coat that holds the tails together while it hangs on the back of the door. He tugs it off and shrugs into it, making quick work of the zipper and buttons over the chest. He runs his hands down under the back of the coat to flare the tails outward, and then glides towards the stables.  

Mycroft leads his favorite mount from her stall. Dreamweaver is a sixteen hand chestnut Thoroughbred mare with a white face and hind socks. She is seven years old and has long ago lost her lanky filly look, instead she is a muscular red beauty. Mycroft grooms her with skillful, gently strokes until her coat shines. As he combs out her neatly pulled mane, she nuzzles his coat pockets, searching for the peppermint candies with her lips since he never bothers to cross-tie her. When he holds the candy out to her on an open palm, he smiles a tight smile at the feeling of her whiskers against his skin. He pats her neck without speaking and she follows him to the tack room, waiting patiently in the human-sized doorway for him to retrieve his bridle and saddle. She drops her head as he tacks her up and then swings up, finally leaning over to untuck his coat tails from under his rear end and adjusting his stirrups from the saddle. With a squeeze to her sides and a short tug on the reins, they clip clop down the aisle and out into the day.

Mycroft rides easily, naturally, allowing the motions of the powerful body underneath his own to ease the crashing turmoil of his mind. His hands are soft, gloved fingers holding the reins lightly, balanced on the balls of his feet. They turn around towards the back of the barns and he asks her for a slow ground-covering trot. He does not post but rather stands up in the stirrups, resting his weight in his feet without bouncing. At the edge of the tree line, they turn and follow it, watching as a sleek rabbit jumps out of their way. Dreamweaver snorts and stretches her neck, happy to get out of the barn for a bit. She keeps her ears pricked up, only occasionally flicking one backwards in a way that Mycroft has always thought means she is listening to him.

But he is not talking today, not saying a word other than through light corrections on the reins or with his calves. He urges her into a canter as they turn away from the tree line and back towards the farm, making short work of the distance. He switches the reins to one hand in order to give her a smack on the shoulder then watches as her skin twitches a little in reply, little wisps of steam rising from under the pommel in front of him. She knows what he wants, they have done this before.

Feeling like a young lad again, just open to open the oyster of his world, Mycroft leans down so that his shoulders are parallel with the mare’s withers. His knees grip the saddle and they race through the open gate of the practice arena, heading straight down the center to the double oxer someone set up over the last few days. Mycroft adjusts his position two strides before the jump and then they are flying over it and landing clearly on the other side with plenty of space to spare. Dreamweaver lands easily, giving a feisty little crow hop and a snort when she finally has four feet back on the ground. He turns her towards the rail and slows her to a walk, dropping the reins over her neck. The big mare goes instantly from red hot fireball to plodding draft horse as her head drops to the ground and she seems to fall asleep. This time Mycroft actually laughs, his chuckle rolling out of his chest and into the chilly air. He gives her another pat on the neck and calls her Seabiscuit, an American Thoroughbred known for winning races with style then almost immediately taking a nap afterwards.

After two circuits of the arena at a walk, Mycroft pulls his stirrups up a little higher then flattens the leathers with his hands, so that they will not chafe against his legs. He assumes the two point position, shortens the reins a smidge and Dreamweaver comes back to life. She actually dances a little to one side as she settles back into a canter. Mycroft asks for a little more speed and once again heads up and over the jump. She is moving freely and the exercise is a balm to his mind. They take the wide jump twice more and he turns her back to the rail, hunkers down and lets her run. The arena is oval-shaped, surely reminiscent of the race tracks Dreamweaver flew down when she was much younger.

The mare responds to the request for more speed by laying her ears flat against her head and pouring it on. Mycroft focuses on nothing else except the staccato sound of her hoof beats on the packed dirt. The sound is the organization of thoughts in his mind.

Sometimes when he allows her to run like this, he can still hear the roar of the crowd and feel the weightless seconds as he and his mount soar over the huge wood and brush steeplechase jumps. Today, however, the actions have done exactly what he hoped they would do and allowed him to put the acute problems of the day to the back of his conscious and let them sort themselves out as they will. Mycroft gives Dreamweaver a few firm tugs on the reins and she slows her movements from a gallop to a canter then skips the trot altogether until she is finally moving around the arena in a long striding walk. When she snorts, her heated breath makes steam from her nostrils.

“That was beautiful.” A deep, lilting voice calls from the rail. Detective Lestrade is standing with his feet shoulder width apart, leaning against the fence with his elbows and forearms resting on the top rail. Though he and Mycroft have had a _thing_ for a while now, he is curious about the way the sight of those coat tails streaming out in the wind above a red horse’s tail as they moved as one unit around the arena did to his heart. He tries to watch the horse, to remember her name at least but cannot help but watch the man as the pair waltz in Greg’s direction.  The mare’s eyes are as bright and lively as Mycroft’s dark blue ones when he turns his attention to the detective.

Mycroft dismounts gracefully, landing lightly on his booted feet. He flips the reins over Dreamweaver’s head then turns towards Greg. “Walk with me.” Greg nods and walks through the gate to join him. He gives Mycroft a soft peck on the lips then slings his arm around the other man’s shoulders.

“I received a telephone call I did not expect this morning.” Mycroft offers to the empty ring at large.

Greg may not know exactly what happened, but he understands a grave tone of voice.

“Aye, Tracy?” He allows his arm to slip to Mycroft’s waist and somehow manages to pull him a bit closer as the three of the walk the arena.

“Yes.” Mycroft says as they walk to cool the horse off a little before heading back to the stable.

^=^

Patricia Watson is alone in the fully-decked out basement of the house at White Fox Stables. She is high as a kite and her nostrils flare as the man she has heard James refer to as ‘Sandman’ enters the room. She does not move from her prone position on the long sofa that sits at the end of the room facing away from the massive billiard table. She swings the foot hanging off the cushions as the big man shadow falls over her. Patricia looks up at him and cringes.

“You are killing my buzz.” She tries for waspish but only gets meek.

The big man smiles down at her with a look that would scare Jack the Ripper. “Moriarity sends you a message.” His hollow voice rasps as he takes a piece of paper from the pocket of his black dress trousers. Her eyes scan over his salmon pink button down and white collar to his black bracers. She wonders if he would be interested in having some fun and cocks an eyebrow in his direction. The man backs up a step and shakes his head at her when she reaches out to catch the elastic on his chest in her hand. He holds up his index finger and shakes his head side to side.

“No.”

She gives him a little pout that at another time and place would have been sexy, and then unfolds the note in her hand. She reads it once then again and her face crumbles, tears falling with no mercy. The big man closes the door on her wailing. Patricia’s whole body goes limp and she will wake up on the plush carpet four hours from now with a raging headache, sore arms and with no memory of the entire episode until she finds that note again, only this time there will be no high to escape into. There will be nothing except for the knowledge that not only did she fuck up this time, _this_ cannot be undone.

^=^

“No. God no.” John’s voice is a plea that reverberates through the sterile corridors of the hospital wing where he has spent the last sleepless days and nights with his guts in turmoil over his daughter. His lover has been running in and out, sometimes staying for hours, other times for only a few moments before heading out again. This time, he has returned from some errand and is standing directly behind John when John’s knees simply give up any desire to hold him upright any longer and he begins to descend towards the hateful tile.

Sherlock’s arms are quick and he catches his lover before his body can slam to the floor.

“I only stepped out to grab a bite to eat…” John does not sound like himself; his voice is broken, strained and so full of pain that it physically hurts Sherlock to hear it. He pulls John back against his body, giving the comfort of merely being there because he is not sure what else to do.

Doctor Mitchell stands there with the clipboard in his hands. His frowns and does his best not to bite at his bottom lip; as with all medical personnel, this is the part of his job he dreads with every fiber in his being. He gives John a quick pat on the shoulder then disappears behind the swinging doors, only Sherlock having heard the last few sentences the man spoke.

John is falling into a void, blackness where red like blood seeps in around the edges. When he finally comes to again, he is pounding his fists against Sherlock’s chest whilst his lover holds him in place with vise-like arms about his waist. Tears fall unimpeded down John’s cheeks, snot runs from his nose and his breath is coming out in gasps and puffs. With each solid hit against Sherlock’s chest, Sherlock tightens his arms until they are steel bands holding John in place—keeping him from falling completely apart there between the unforgiving lights and horrible plastic chairs.

When he finally realizes what he is doing, he attempts to push away from his lover but he finds himself unable to move within the cage of Sherlock's arms and body. Instead, he leans down against the broad chest in front of him and cries himself into a stupor.

Sherlock holds John tightly at first and then more tenderly when John’s sobbing begins to fade. He walks backwards to drop into one of the chairs that line the wall behind them, sitting up enough that he can still hang onto the grieving man in his arms, the grieving father, the man that until this moment has always been so strong and who has been nothing but kind and understanding towards him. He thinks about the results that he received back from London just this morning--the ones scratched down on a scrap piece of paper that is now folded in his trouser pocket. He now knows without a doubt _what_ was in the syringe but is still unsure as to _how_ it got here in order to cause this damage. He breathes in deeply, hoping that it will help John somehow, feeling the pain of each and every single hit from John’s grieving fists, thinking that in some way all of this is his fault and he deserves all of them, and quite possibly more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry?


	16. What You Mean to Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I missed my 2,000 word goal on this chapter by about 200 words. I just had to end it on a somewhat positive note because it seems like I have thumped on poor John.

When Sherlock is finally able to bundle a quiet, shell-shocked and completely out of it John into the car so they may head home, he watches the other man carefully. John’s gaze is inward, defeated; understandably sad. Sherlock is uncharacteristically quiet on the drive back to the farm, keeping his hands on the steering wheel with his fingers wrapped so tightly that they are numb by the time he gets them safely home. For all accounts and purposes, he really is not exactly _legally_ allowed to drive in this country; some things are just more important. As he guides the vehicle down the roads, his chaotic thoughts turn the pages of memory albums in his mind; he is at once struck by the memory of his mother’s sallow face as she lay against the hospital pillows; watching his father grieve for a woman who no longer loved him after she saw him for his true self; growing up with the fear of being so alone. He shakes his head against the memories of how his father seemed to carry his own burden of guilt when she finally died from the disease that took away not only her body but also her mind. When he puts the car into park in the driveway between the house and the stable yard, he has managed to tamp down the worst of the memories, though the almost ethereal lingering feeling of doubt is heavy against his shoulders.

He climbs out of what he still thinks of as the wrong side of the car and crosses in front of it to retrieve John. He is only vaguely aware that he has left the headlights on as he walks past them, the sickly yellowish beams cutting through the deepening dusk like the tiny spark of hope left at the bottom of Pandora’s Box. He is only partially sure of what to do to help John, at the very least he can get him into some comfortable clothes and a warm bed; that’s what Mycroft did for him all those years ago, anyway, though it is hard to “feel better” when all one felt at the time was _nothing_.

In his entire thirty years of life, Sherlock has never been so close to grief such as this; something so dark and miserable that it threatens to take over what life remains. He has never hurt so much for _another human being_ before. Even when their mother left the three of them on the tails of Sieger’s confession there was not this horrible sense of _loss_ that he can see on John’s beloved features, only the feeling that she was no longer around. When she did finally die, he had already managed to remove himself from her emotionally; besides, he and Mycroft had to be there for their father and it was then that the two of them learned they could count on each other in times of crises—no matter how badly Sherlock treats his older brother at times, there is still an undeniable bond between them.

With a start, he realizes that he is simply standing beside the car door, looking through the windshield at John. He pulls on the handle and reaches out a hand to the hurting soul slumped down in the seat; his hand seems to stretch over a gulf that cannot be bridged by a single gesture; when John does not move in any way, Sherlock drops to his knees, fighting the wince that crosses his face at the strain on his weaker leg and awkwardly leans into the car so that his torso is over John’s knees. He reaches up and pushes back a stray silvery gold hair from John’s forehead and waits to be acknowledged. He touches John’s temple, runs his index finger down the shell of his ear, trailing down his neck. It seems as if it has been a lot longer than just a few hours that John has been inside himself. Suddenly, John takes a deep breath and seems to be made aware of his surroundings as his eyes, so full of pain, red staining the sclera that encircles the pristine crystal blue hold Sherlock’s for an heart-rending, open moment that is over far too fast.

“Sherlock.” He says before his head drops to his chest and the tears flow anew. Acting on instinct, Sherlock merely wraps himself around his lover as much as possible from the unforgiving ground and holds him, desperately wishing for a way to erase the pain that cracked through John’s face as he was forced to face reality like a whip.

^=^

Mycroft holds the telephone between his ear and his shoulder as he chops vegetables in the kitchen, his hands so practiced with the knives that they are a blur. It is much later in the evening than most people deem respectable for dinner, but Mycroft does not mind fending for himself after the cook has left for the day, especially when he will have such wonderful company. The phone cord is stretched as far as it can go without breaking between the wall and the counter, giving him the air of a gossiping teenager barely paying attention to his immediate surroundings.

Nothing could be farther from the truth. As he listens to the unusual tone of melancholy in his little brother’s voice he is also aware of the sound of the front door opening as well as the thud, thump of a pair of boots hitting the floor. His eyes flick upwards from the celery he is dicing to look out the window at the darkened skies that threaten some form of precipitation, most likely a snow shower before morning. Greg moves in close beside him to drop a hand on his shoulder in his silent way of asking if Mycroft needs any help. Mycroft shakes his head to the negative and uses the knife to point towards the tea kettle and the coffee pot. He continues to listen to his brother, both the words he is saying and the ones he is conveniently leaving out. He can only see one answer to this problem. He turns his head to watch his friend as he listens to Sherlock explain about the results for the drug found in Tracy’s system: the drug that ultimately ended her life.

Greg sets a large bar of chocolate on the counter then washes his hands in the sink. At Mycroft’s inquisitive glance, he smiles and leans down to pull a small sauce pan from the cupboard. He turns on the hob then reaches down and grabs a pan that is just slightly larger, filling it with water. He sets the smaller pan inside of it then puts the whole thing on the burner. He opens the chocolate bar, breaks it into pieces in the top sauce pan and grins as Mycroft hangs up the telephone. Mycroft steps past him to return to his vegetables, chops two carrots and opens the refrigerator, handing Greg a pint of milk.

Greg laughs and threatens to swat Mycroft with the large spoon he is currently slowly stirring the chocolate with. When he finally has the syrup where he wants it, he reaches up and grabs two mugs. Greg tips milk into each one then pours a bit of the chocolate in as well. He stirs them and nudges Mycroft with his hip, handing him one of the mugs.

Mycroft sips the warm brew and cocks an eyebrow, which to Greg means in Mycroft-ese “wow.”

“So what was that all about then, Mycroft?” Greg leans against the counter, one elbow resting against the marble top; his other hand still holds the remainder of his hot chocolate.

Instead of answering, Mycroft asks his own question. “How would you like to visit America for Christmas, Greg?”

^=^

Sherlock paces through the kitchen towards the front door, spins on his heel to stalk back in the opposite direction then comes full circle back through the kitchen, bare feet playing a melody alternately against wood and plush carpet. He is yanking agitatedly on the sash of his dressing gown as he moves forward out of want of something to do with his hands. He prowls down the hallway towards the bedroom that has become _theirs_ ; noting that in reality it has been such a short time, even though Sherlock already feels like he has had John Watson in his heart his entire life.

He pauses amidst his restless pacing in the doorway of the darkened room and simply watches John’s fitful sleep. He grudgingly admits to himself that he feels a little better after calling Mycroft, though he gets the sneaking suspicion—no, that’s ridiculous. Not a suspicion at all, not really. He is sure that Mycroft will be coming for a visit very soon and will probably end up staying through the holidays. He knows it is only a matter of days for his brother to choose one or two members of his staff who are capable of running the place in his absence, especially during the down season.

He stretches his arms out across the doorway, one palm spread wide on either side, and lets his head drop towards the ground, alternately tensing and releasing the muscles of his neck and shoulders. John stirs a little in his slumber, though not enough to open his eyes and see the unconscious gesture of supplication from his lover.

^=^

In reality, John does open his eyes. The sight of the coal black curly mop bent in his direction, half the face hidden in the shadows of the middle of the night, is enough to take his heart out of his chest, show it to him and then slam it back into the cavity where it belongs. Even over the pain of losing Tracy. John is so conflicted deep inside; but not so much that he is not thankful to have someone by his side. He pushes himself up on his elbows a little, the sound causing Sherlock’s head to move upward until a silver-green gaze holds his own across the chasm of the bedroom. Wearily, John holds his arms out, palms upward; a question of need, of comfort; of the simple human desire to be _close_.

Sherlock takes two strides across the room to wind up with his head buried against John’s chest, his long arms about John’s ribcage, his ear pressed against John’s heart. John cards his fingers through Sherlock’s hair and they say absolutely nothing yet the motions say everything.


	17. Snowfall

A week before Christmas, Mycroft shows up at the front door with Detective Lestrade in tow. When John opens the door, he is greeted by the sight of the two men engaged in a rosy-cheeked lip lock as snowflakes drift gently into their hair; it looks like powdered sugar against the midnight blue of the crisp, cold night. Much to Sherlock’s surprise, John’s warming laughter echoes through the house, thawing the cold that has settled over everything effortlessly. John will never say that he does not still hurt, but after a month of solid care from his lover, he is starting to think that he will make peace with the situation and be able to continue to live.

At Tracy’s memorial, John had been quietly inconsolable. They had been surrounded by a myriad of Holmes Enterprises employee and Sherlock did the best he knew by simply being by John’s side, holding his elbow and following wherever John lead them. Half of Tracy’s ashes were scattered near the Schuylkill River and the other half were sent home to her grandmother to be scattered where and whenever the elderly woman chooses. John has had no other contact with anyone inside Patricia’s family circle, including his ex-wife. John is now thinking that it is better that way. He is by no means through his grief, though is aware that he needs to keep pushing forward; Tracy will always live in his heart.

So the fact that he laughs genuinely when he opens the door to lay eyes on a man he has always seen as rather imposing, aloof and businesslike in a deep kiss with a rather good-looking soon-to-be-silver-haired bloke, John cannot control his laughter. It feels good, bubbling up from his chest after far too long.  

Sherlock is sitting on the sofa in the lounge with one leg crossed over the other, calf resting on knee and violin resting against his chest. He has been idly fingering the strings of the instrument, searching through his mental catalog of songs whilst John has been puttering about the kitchen making a small pot of mulled wine.

Mycroft steps over the threshold and introduces John and Greg, turning his back on the two men when they shake hands with one another. Mycroft pulls off his coat, hangs it on the back of the door as indicated by John, and then immediately walks to the room he knows his brother is in, following the strains of a soft melody.

“I think it would be good to allow them some time. Would you like to join me in the kitchen?” John asks as Greg hangs his own coat over Mycroft’s. Greg peers over his shoulder at this man that he has heard so much about, studying his silvery blonde hair and sturdy build.  After knowing the Holmes brothers for less than a year, and spending even less time with Sherlock, he is already impressed with someone who can remain in the younger brother’s orbit much less love the man.

Greg is no fool; he knows what he sees in John’s eyes just in the brief moment John spoke to him. He smiles and follows John to the kitchen, deeply inhaling the scent of the wine on the stove. John adds a little more from the bottle, presumably for his guests.

“You weren’t expecting us tonight, I see.” Greg settles at the table.

“No, I really wasn’t. It is okay, though, you know. Mycroft is technically my boss, after all. He can pretty much do what he wants.” John stirs the wine slowly, first clockwise then counterclockwise as if doing a spell.  They are silent as the concoction warms back up to the correct temperature. The whole kitchen is full of a wonderfully warm spicy smell that is in direct contrast to the frigid, desolate world outside the house.

Greg figures if the stuff tastes half as a good as it smells, he will be more than happy to call it a magic potion. He laughs a little, the tips of his ears turning red when he thinks about the way he and Mycroft must have looked. “Eh, sorry about the entrance, mate.”

John chuckles as he moves the sauce pan off the burner. “It is all fine, Detective.”

“Ah, you don’t work for me. I’m Greg.” He flashes a brilliant smile at John and in that instant both men decide that they could easily be friends for life. “Would you like some help with all that?” He steps forward as John is busy pulling down some wineglasses from the cupboards.

“Sure.” John points to a high cabinet above the refrigerator. “There’s a big tray up there, if you don’t mind.” Greg reaches it easily as he is several inches taller than John. John nods his thanks and proceeds to pour the warm wine into the glasses, setting them on the tray as he goes. Greg grabs the platter of neatly sliced cheese and crackers and follows John into the lounge.

John has not bothered to decorate much for the holiday, save for a few strings of lights here and there and the wreath on the front door. The lights hung around the windows give the sitting room a comfortable, homey atmosphere. Sherlock stands when they enter with the refreshments and moves to the fireplace to light the neatly stacked wood inside. John sets the tray with the drinks on the low coffee table between the couch and two chairs; Greg follows with the plate. Within minutes, the four of them are comfortably settled with their drinks while a fire grumbles to itself behind the grate, flashing orange and yellow shadows on the walls around them.

For the first time in a month, John feels comfortably at _home_. He and Sherlock sit side by side on the sofa, barely a strip of space between their thighs, even with Sherlock’s legs crossed at the ankles. Mycroft and Greg are across from them. The conversation carries throughout the evening with John and Mycroft catching up on a few notes of business, Greg telling a few anecdotes about police life, and then Mycroft hits on the subject of Sieger Holmes.

“You would have liked him, Greg, he was an amazing person.” John holds up his glass and the others follow in a silent toast to his memory.

“Indeed.” Mycroft and Sherlock intone together.

^=^

The unrelenting snow has begun piling up outside; Greg is relaxing in the guest bedroom at the opposite end of the house from the room that apparently John and Sherlock are sharing. He is lying flat out, hands beneath his head, his back propped up on a pillow as he waits for Mycroft to finish his nightly ministrations in the bathroom. It has been a long evening, but for all of that, not an unpleasant one. When the conversation finally shifted towards the reason they were all together, he could read the strain on John’s face though the man was strong and did not make any more of an issue about it than necessary.

A weaker man would have attempted to avoid the topic completely. He is beginning to understand how John’s personality seems to compliment Sherlock’s and wonders what that says about himself.

^=^

Sherlock would never admit to another living soul that lying like this, holding a drowsy man in his arms, being able to tuck his chin against golden hair, and listen to the wind howl outside the window is a most marvelous discovery.

^=^

James stands in front of the Sandman, his neatly-manicured hand stinging from the slap he has just delivered across the big man’s face. James’ face is red, he has narrowed his eye lids, and his teeth are bared. “Fuck you, Sebastian.” James raises his hand to deliver another quick blow and Sebastian “Sandman” Moran does not move. They both know he could squash the life out of one James Moriarity in a matter of seconds. Instead, James rubs his chin and regards his bodyguard cum lover cum partner with a shrewd expression.

“Jim, let me go after him myself. It will be over quickly then we can continue…”

“What did I _just_ say?” James rises up onto his toes, wrinkling the stylish cuffs on his trousers as he does so. He absolutely does not touch Sebastian, though the taller man leans down unconsciously; a mongoose momentarily hypnotized by the eyes of the cobra. James grabs the slim black silk tie about Sebastian’s neck and pulls the other man down to him so that their eyes are level with one another. He casually runs his palm over the reddened cheek that he has just slapped, then smoothes over Sebastian’s thick dark-brown hair, a paternal action without the care. “Hmmm….Mister Saaandmaaan….” James sings under his breath. He starts walking forward, pushing Sebastian back towards the doorway. Sebastian fights the urge to take his fingers and remove the blue eye shadow and heavy black eye liner from around James’ eyes. Instead, he complies until they stop on the threshold of the bedroom. The big man balks and does not move, no matter how hard James pushes.

It is all part of the game.

“Sebastian, Sebastian.” Moriarty mumbles to himself as he fiddles with Moran’s belt, unbuckling it with deft east. Sebastian is a cold statue, unmoving, unfeeling, knowing when he is being used. Of course, the same could be said for him using James. James slides his hand into Sebastian’s fly, finding to his surprise that the man is completely bare under his trousers.

“Ohhh…..daddy likes.” He purrs in his high-pitched voice, stroking Sebastian’s prick and bullocks.

Sebastian does not move.

“Oh…Sebby baby don’t be that way. You are still daddy’s favorite.” James turns his attention back to Sebastian’s crotch, where he is receiving absolutely no recognition for his efforts, so he instead pinches the skin at the base of Sebastian’s flaccid prick.

Sebastian steps backward, almost knocking James off balance.

James growls, recovers, and then looks to Sebastian’s dark expression and _laughs_. “You are jealous!” He spins around in a little circle, the light from the window reflecting off of his highly-polished black leather shoes. “All those bitches and pricks and _this_ one you are jealous over?” He wrinkles his patrician nose and wags a finger towards Sebastian’s face.

A deep rumbling growl explodes from Sebastian’s chest and he grabs James’ hand. The smaller man’s eyes go wide as Sebastian quite literally slams him against the wall in the hallway, mashing his lean body against the smooth wood paneling. Sebastian’s hands are big enough that they spread over each of James’ hips, effectively pinning him in place; an insect under glass.

James squirms in the hold, the mocking laughter in his dark eyes replaced now with a slow burning ebony fire. “Why?” He asks in as normal a tone as James Moriarty ever speaks in, his voice low but by no means humbled.

“You are obsessed with him.” Sebastian answers, his hands tightening against James’ hips as he stares into those reptilian eyes; he is rewarded with the slightest flicker of pain.

“No.” James tries.

“Yes.” Sebastian pushes his muscular body even closer, his broad shoulders easily fifteen centimeters wider than Moriarty’s. He grinds his hips against James and James lets out a content sigh.

“If that’s what it takes to get you this worked up, my dear.”

Sebastian lets him go suddenly, stepping away from him.

“Don’t go.” James whines.

“Tell me.” Sebastian demands, his hands at his sides.

“Fine.” James moves into the bedroom where he drops down at the edge of the bed. He leans down and pulls something out from underneath it that he begins twirling in between his fingers.

Sebastian eyes the tassels on the end of the whip and his mouth waters. “Tell me.” He says again, this time stepping right into James space. James raises the whip, Sebastian grasps it, holding it in place.

“He walked away from me, Sandman. He walked away from me.” That is enough for Sebastian so he pushes James down on his back then straddles his lean thighs with his own thick ones.

“ _He_ doesn’t matter.” Sebastian is now lying full body over James, his hands on either side of James’ head. He can feel his heartbeat through the silk waistcoat he’s wearing.

“No, Sebastian, he doesn’t…” James’ words are cut off when the stocky man grinds his very large prick against James’ groin, causing him to moan. “He does not matter, but what would happen if I let him get away with it? Too many will follow.”

“I can take care of them.” Sebastian murmurs from where his teeth are now sunk into Moriarty’s throat. He thoroughly enjoys the feel of his master’s trembling body on those times when he allows Sebastian to be in control.

“You can.” James agrees, rolling his hips in reply. He knows tonight’s activities are going to hurt, though the Sandman knows who really owns _him_. “But not until I am ready. I need to make an _example_ of him, Sebastian...” he is quiet for a second whilst Sebastian works his trousers down then rips them off of James’ legs, leaving his shoes on. Sebastian rolls his tongue over the head of James’ actually rather average prick and James whines.

Sebastian sits back on his haunches and laughs, placing one hand on either of James’ shoulders, holding him there.

“Even if I have to make an example of his whole damned family…” James offers even as Sebastian is roughly flipping him over and forcing him up on his knees. He receives another bite on the back of his neck and Sebastian growls at him to stop talking.

He finds in short order that he has nothing much else to say that is not loud and virtually incomprehensible.


	18. New Emotions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I can stop him."

John awakens slowly the next morning, gently hooking his fingers through the cottony fluff of sleep to become aware of the deeply insistent but incredibly grounding rhythm of a large ribcage moving in and out that is pressed up against his back. A very bare ribcage attached to a very bare, very well-made six-foot tall jump jockey.

For the first time in over a month, John feels a tiny flicker of _joy_.

He rolls over and somehow manages to wrap his arms around the lanky figure, palms gently stroking over Sherlock’s incredible posterior. A humming sound comes from a soft, warm mouth that is buried against John’s neck; it is followed by a hot wet lap of a tongue against his skin. John sighs, happy that Sherlock is simply allowing John to cling to him in the manner of rather persistent English Ivy.

John tightens his grip on Sherlock’s arse, rolling his hips upward in a gentle but very insistent grind. Sherlock licks against John’s neck again and answers the physical question with a longer, almost demanding roll of his own. It does not take too long for John to feel the pressure that is almost too much and then he is pulsing his way through his orgasm and then he is gasping for air and Sherlock is holding him by the shoulders and Sherlock’s changeling emerald and sapphire eyes are filled with a strange fright…why? He is worried and John cannot breathe at all because he has just lost his daughter, his daughter for Christsakes and she will never get to feel this and oh god what is happening here why can he not get control….

“John.”

John takes in a huge gulp of air and tries very hard to get his emotions under control; he may not have lived there for over fifteen years, but he is still English enough that he is embarrassed, and at the same time American enough to know that trying to stop what he is feeling will just come back to haunt him later. He sits up and swings his legs over the side of the bed in one motion. The next thing he knows is that he standing outside in the at-least-ankle-deep snow, dressed for working around the stables, and looking around dumbfounded at a completely changed world. How did he miss _this_?

From where he stands to the horizon the world is blanketed in tiny hillocks of almost-blinding white. It is as if someone intentionally coated the roofs of the barns with white fluff; a couple of enormous crystalline icicles hang down from the gutters, reflecting the slowly ascending sun.  The snow clumps randomly between the house and the stables; there are no tracks in the pristine clouds that have fallen from the sky save for his own behind him. Unexpectedly, he has found a brand new emotion in the ethereal silence of the freshly fallen snow: clearly beautiful, transparent, and more than a little bit scary. It is almost as if he is seeing it all for the first time, clearly and even though his head is still in a muddle, there can be no doubt about the clean slate of his future. At the moment, though, he does not want to think about that, not _yet._ This is what John needed—just time to _stop_ _and breathe_. He does so, then, takes in a deep lungful of the thin, cold air, feeling the slight burn down his throat as it spreads across his chest in a reminder that he is _alive_.

The fog in his head suddenly clears as his thoughts turn outward to think about the other lives he is supposed to be caring for. He turns to retrace his steps back to the house, considering that is he is going to have to request some help from the others so that they can get back and forth to the barns, and how to go about it without sounding like he cannot handle it himself if need be.

 

^=^

 

Greg and Mycroft are in the kitchen when he returns, already half-dressed in jeans and jumpers; both with turtlenecks peeking out from their collars. Mycroft gives him a nod as he enters and gestures towards the coffee pot. John tilts his head to the affirmative and picks up the telephone to begin the arduous process of seeing which of his stable hands might actually be able to make it out to the barns today; he knows how bad the roads will be, but he needs some sort of head count so that he can form a plan. It is already an hour past the time the horses are used to being fed.

As John is talking with Jeff, he is suddenly engulfed in a warm embrace from behind. He turns just as Jeff hangs up and the warmth is pulled back. He looks up in Sherlock’s eyes, trying to tell the other man without actually saying it that Sherlock has done nothing wrong. Sherlock seems to understand as he pats John’s shoulder before he steps into the kitchen. John hears a gruff ‘good morning’ sent in Mycroft’s direction before he dials the next number on his mental list.

^=^

Within the hour, the four of them manage to dig a path from the house to the stables, then in between the barns in order to haul around two wheelbarrows full of feed: Greg is pushing the one stacked with hay while John carts the big yellow metal one filled with coffee cans of pre-measured oats and sweet feed. He inhales the wonderful scent of molasses and what he thinks of as horse-granola as he shoves open the small door at the end of the barn in order to push the wheelbarrow through it. Mycroft is busily going down the aisle with a hose to top off water buckets that he as miraculously talked his brother into breaking the ice out of when John finally gets into position to start feeding.

Deep neighs rumble through muscular chests, some hooves thud against wooden walls in obvious irritation of being made to wait for breakfast, snow be damned. John is greeted by a few whickers as well and he takes his time talking to each horse as he dumps the feed into buckets. Greg comes behind him, tossing in two and three flakes of hay to the inhabitants of the barn. Soon the contended sounds of strong jaws crunching and the occasionally drip of water from a muzzle fills the air around the men. Sherlock and Greg decide to play the who-can-clean-stalls-fastest game that somehow culminates in Mycroft and John racing to dump the wheelbarrows as they work their way up the aisle picking the worst of the dirty bedding out until a clear day when the horses can be let out for a while to get the job done properly.

When they finally end at the last pair of stalls, John is thankful that only the big barn has any horses in it; many of the boarders have gone home for the winter and the two smaller barns are empty save for some birds and cats. Greg is laughing as he swings the pitchfork over his shoulder; Mycroft follows him with the wheelbarrow in order to put it back where it belongs. John listens for the whumpf of the door closing against the cold and the sounds of horses finishing their meals settle back down around him.

John stands with his arms hanging over the half-door of the tack room, his back to the harnesses and bridles, facing Sherlock who is leaning up against the wall brushing loose hay from his shoulders. When he is finally satisfied and turns his eyes in John’s direction, John cannot control the tightness in his chest as he studies his lover’s work-warmed skin, sweat-soaked ringlets on his forehead, and inquisitive expression.

“John.” Sherlock’s voice seems to naturally meld with the sounds of the barn around them. John considers that and says nothing, though there are millions of words bouncing  about his mind that he feels like he _should_ say.

 Sherlock watches him without moving off the wall. “You accept me with everything that is wrong, physically and mentally. How could I ever offer you anything less?”He says with uncanny directness.

John feels like a fool when he feels the warmth of tears behind his eyes. He ducks his head to gain control of himself, though he cannot stop them so that when he looks up again, they catch the light from the bulbs on the ceiling to glitter goldly down his cheeks. Sherlock finally moves, but it is careful, measured like he’s walking up to a skittish colt. He reaches out to gently wipe away one of John’s tears then opens the door and folds John into his arms. The solid heat from his body is an invitation and John allows Sherlock to push him against the one clear wall in the small room and work his magic with his talented mouth. John is virtually overwhelmed and it is…wonderful.

^=^

When they are both satisfied, they find themselves sitting on the hard cement floor of the tack room, surrounded by the scents of leather, saddle soap and the omnipresent dust. John’s head rests against Sherlock’s shoulder and Sherlock’s arm is around his waist. Both men sit with their legs straight out in front of them, booted feet either crossed at the ankles (Sherlock) or the knees (John.) It is even quieter here than in the main barn until Sherlock’s tightly collected baritone reverberates from the walls.

“I would understand if you want to end _this_.” He moves the hand not around John’s waist between them without taking his eyes off the wall.

“Why would you think that, Sherlock?” John frowns and turns his face up towards Sherlock’s; when Sherlock will not look at him, he places one hand against a cheek and forces his attention to him.

“I….” John kisses the words out of his mouth.

“No, Sherlock. I am hurting, absolutely. There isn’t anything anyone can do. It will take time, yeah?” He wants to jump into Sherlock’s eyes and swim for all he’s worth.

“I can do _something_ , John.” Sherlock’s voice takes on a dark timbre.

“No, Sherlock, there is nothing…” John is cut off when a broad, very hot palm grips the back of his neck tightly—not enough to cause pain but enough to make John pay very close attention. He leans in towards Sherlock.

“ _I_ can stop him.” Sherlock’s eyes have changed from simmering emerald passion to the dark gray of Damascus steel.

John does not know how to reply. He should ask how Sherlock can be so sure that Tracy’s death could be attributed to Moriarity; he should wonder about so many things about Sherlock, such as _how_ he intends to do just that—especially at this distance, but, for the second time that day, he decides that _trusting_ in Sherlock is what he should do. He gazes deep into the untested strength of his lover’s eyes, taking the seriousness to heart and gives Sherlock a nod, which they then seal with another kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for waxing poetically guys, it just sort of comes out sometimes and there's no stopping it...


	19. Don't Look Back

Christmas Day looms on the horizon and then passes by; it is a quiet affair, unmarked by much save for the ticking of the antique clock on the wall and the soft strains of a solo violin concerto. It takes several days after the storm before the snow melts down enough to allow safe passage on the roads for the regular help and stable hands, so the four men share the necessary daily chores amongst themselves, keeping everything moving between the house and barns in a reasonable facsimile of normality—even if at a slower pace than usual.

It is late in the afternoon the day before New Year’s Eve when Mycroft settles himself at the kitchen table where John is snapping beans, his gaze far away as his hands peel the “string” from each green bean, snap it in half and drop it into the bowl on the table. Each time he takes one of the waxy green vegetables from the bowl, his hands make the same precise movement, time after time. Mycroft sips his freshly-brewed tea as he contemplates the other man. Greg is hanging out in the study watching television and relaxing a bit before their flight home. Mycroft idly wonders where his brother has gotten himself off to, though the question is soon answered by the soft sounds of a violin traveling through the house. He listens to the melody, understanding _everything_ that Sherlock has not said to him.

It is enough.

Mycroft clears his throat. John’s attention snaps back to reality upon the intrusive sound. Mycroft knows he is in a bit of rocky territory here, after all, the man is most definitely still grieving; but there are some things that he needs to say (he would never admit to needing to get these items _off his chest_ , but there it is.) He regards John warmly when he stands to pour the fresh green beans into the large pot of water waiting on the stove. John turns on the burner then adds some salt, covers the pot and makes himself a cup of tea all in one smooth movement that Mycroft finds fascinating: he cannot help but draw parallels between these two men that he and his brother have chosen to share their lives with. John gives Mycroft a tight smile that draws the lines around his firm mouth into relief as if he can hear the words rattling around the older Holmes sibling’s head.

To an outsider, both men appear to be listening intently to the happy, lilting tune Sherlock is pulling from the strings in the bedroom down the hall; however, to someone in the know, Mycroft and John are in truth worlds apart at that moment: more than an old wooden table separates them.

Mycroft is thinking that for the first time in his life, Sherlock seems _content_ ; not out searching for the next bit of excitement. In fact, he has not even mentioned getting back to steeplechasing in the time that Mycroft has been in Pennsylvania. Mycroft considers what it all means.

John watches Mycroft carefully: he knows where this conversation is ultimately headed and he is more than glad that he and Sherlock have never attempted to hide their relationship, at least from his sibling. He would never want anyone to believe that he is less than proud of Sherlock, even after their rocky start: from the way he has been helping out around the place without complaint (something John would _never_ have believed about a Holmes in a million years) to the fact that his brilliant mind and body seem to be healing at a rapid pace after his accident and subsequent injuries.

In the oddly endearing way that John (and Greg) have learned the Holmes brothers do, Mycroft’s rich tenor melds with the invisibly dancing music of the violin, as if being musically inclined must be genetic when he finally speaks. “John, first I would like to thank you for the exemplary job you do here. From what I have seen, everything under your care seems to blossom.” He sips at his tea, regarding John with a placid expression.

John nods, accepting the gratitude after all these years for what it is and also hearing quite clearly the words that Mycroft most emphatically did not say. “If this is the part where you tell me if I hurt your brother what’s left of your family would turn me out on the street and destroy what remains of my life, if not my physical being, I get it. You do not have to lay it on the line for me.”

Mycroft blinks, absolutely impressed with John’s grasp of the situation. “I would not be so bold, John; close, though. Just as you did fifteen years ago, you helped Sherlock start over. No matter what happens between the two of you, I will always be thankful for that.” The unsaid words that Mycroft held in during the days right after Sherlock’s return from hospital still manage to bounce around the room, ultimately catching the hidden notes from Sherlock’s playing and drift about on their own. John drinks his tea and nods in Mycroft’s direction as the other man’s dark blue eyes close for a fraction of a second in agreement.

^=^

Sherlock’s eyes are closed against the violin as he cradles it in his arms. Even resting in the armchair beside the bed, his entire body thrums with energy. He plays the instrument with skill, even with fingers still stiff from his accident. Just once he hits the wrong note and scowls, wrinkling the skin over his nose. His eyes snap open in surprise as John suddenly appears in front of him and leans down to place a warm kiss between his eyebrows; smoothing away the little wrinkles. He is just back from taking Greg and Mycroft to the airport.

Sherlock shifts to settle the instrument on the floor just under the chair as John sits down on the bed next to him. John gives Sherlock’s knee a quick pat then places both hands in his lap. Sherlock studies him closely for a moment, knowing that John gives him the time to do so intentionally.

“Mycroft.” John nods once, his eyes never leaving Sherlock’s; this time holding him in place. Sherlock’s eyes flicker over John’s face then down to his tightly clasped hands. He plays with the bow a little, even using the corner of it to scratch his head. Finally, he says firmly to his lover, “He warned you about hurting me.”

“He did, yeah.” John’s expression is tight, guarded.

“No, John.” Sherlock demands under his breath.

“It is okay, Sherlock, he did not tell me that he doesn’t approve…” John offers.

Sherlock cuts him off when he uncurls from the chair and springs across to land beside and partially on top of John. Sherlock regards him with a smoldering intensity: “I do not need his blessing, John.”

“No, _we_ don’t, but still…” John tries to figure out how best to explain that it means a lot to him to continue to be accepted by this family who changed his life so long ago.

“I understand, John.” Sherlock mumbles against John’s lips and for a while they simply get lost in each other. Sherlock takes his time tasting John’s neck with teeth and tongue and John responds in kind until Sherlock is practically panting in his ear. John smiles and nibbles on the lobe of the ear just within his reach until the other man is alternately growling and purring above him.

John pushes upward on Sherlock’s chest, a request to move upward to the pillows, where he straddles Sherlock’s hips as he removes his shirt, then leans down to extract Sherlock from his. John takes his time, thoroughly enjoying the unveiling as much as the act itself. This time, he runs his hands down Sherlock’s ribcage until his fingers are making quick work of Sherlock’s jeans. John does not even try to hold back the primitive sound that he makes upon seeing his lover is bare underneath the denim and quickly uses his mouth to show his appreciation.

^=^

“Thank you for the trip, Mycroft, it was very enjoyable.” Greg says as they pick up their luggage from the carousel. Mycroft nods wearily but smiles in spite of himself; the long flight always wears him out and he is glad to be home. The two men walk in step through the glass doors and out to the parking lot where Greg’s car is parked. There really is not too much else to say at this point, both men are tired and have exactly one day before they need to be at their respective grind stones.

Greg drops into the driver’s seat and looks over at Mycroft. “I know you are tired; I thought you might like a nightcap?”

Mycroft is still caught off guard by the fire in the brown eyes studying him closely. He answers both the spoken and unspoken questions that include _yours or mine_ by reaching over to grasp Greg’s hand that is stroking the gear shift. “Hmmm…sometimes sleeping is overrated, I think.”

Greg hums his agreement and starts the car.

^=^

 

The Sandman moves through the cold darkness on silent boot heels as he passes through the deep shadows between the house and the stables of Holmes Enterprises, London. Any living thing would swear he was never there. He approaches the front door as if he belongs there, picking the lock without so much as a single _plink_ from his pick set even as it gets returned to his pocket. Gently, he uses the tips of his large fingers to push open the door and he steps over the threshold like some sort of huge ninja, drawing the wicked blade from the special panel sewn into his trench coat to hide it without a sound, not even the faintest rustle of the silk liner. The heavy wool coat muffles almost any sound his hands make.

The Sandman does not think as he follows the proscribed route up the stairs to the master bedroom. The door is open so he slips inside; a mouse would make more noise. He stops beside the bed then leans over the sleeping form, drawing back the duvet with one hand and bringing up the blade with the other. He slashes down across the throat and counts the seconds until the blood no longer gushes with each living heartbeat, and then closes the eyes with a gloved hand. He is a man of no faith whatsoever, so he says nothing to the fast cooling corpse; he only leaves the house in the same stealthy manner that he entered it, making good time to get back to Jim. If this doesn’t bring the baby Holmes home from wherever he’s been hiding, then nothing will.

Sebastian surely hopes that it will so Jim can move on and they can go back to making piles of cash. Jim has forced him to go cold turkey for three weeks now, and he is just about at his breaking point. Of course, the alternative would be to _break_ James Moriarity, but where would the fun in that be? He stops to clean the serrated blade against some foliage before slipping back into the trees and vanishing into the burial shroud of the frigid, damp, darkness like some demonic god.

All in a good night’s work.

^=^

“Sherlock, is that the ‘phone?” John asks from where he is trapped underneath Sherlock’s torso. He squints at the clock and wants to simply throw his pillow at it; he does not follow through with it, however, because there is growl from the man above him.

“Ah God, what NOW?” Sherlock snaps, slamming his head into John’s shoulder blades.  John grunts and wiggles out from underneath him, a situation that makes him very irritable, since they were just getting back to the _good parts_.

“Hold on, Sherlock, hold on.” John has to literally bat away the hands that are attempting to grope every square inch of his body as he scoots out of the bed. He grabs his red plaid flannel robe from the back of the door and rushes in the direction of the kitchen.

When Sherlock finally joins him, John is standing against the counter, telephone weakly held between his fingers and his face ghostly white. Sherlock does not move as John’s hand goes to his wide open mouth. Sherlock takes the telephone away from him and hangs it up, moving quickly without thinking. When John actually begins trembling, Sherlock reaches out and pulls him into his chest, hoping against hope that is first reaction to whatever John just heard is the wrong one.


	20. Homecoming

“Lestrade.” Greg answers the telephone that rests on the little table next to the bed.  The words from the dispatcher on the other end of the line force him to bolt upright so fast he almost flips off the side of his mattress.

He steadies himself enough to hear the rest of what is happening and finally mutters in a gravelly tone that seems much more calm and collected than he is really feeling, “I’m on my way.” He hangs up and rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands; so much for one more day of holiday. When he is finally roused enough to feel alive, he turns toward the right side of the bed and is not surprised to find it empty. His heartbeat kicks up a notch. He takes a deep breath in order to control it and heads toward the shower, slipping into “professional police officer mode” as he quite literally runs through his morning routine.

^=^

By the time he arrives at the scene, the cordons are up and the pale salmon hue of the early morning is broken by the blue and red lights of emergency vehicles. A DI unknown to him is standing by the front door speaking with a paramedic. As the brown-haired man shakes his head, he turns in his direction and holds out a hand, palm out, to stop him.

“Let me in.” He says, anger coloring his voice.

“Let him in, Browning, it is his house.” Greg is rushing up to the scene as fast as is able without spilling any of the coffee from the paper cup in his hand. He steps up as close to Mycroft as public decency will allow and offers him the coffee. Mycroft shakes his head, dangerously close to unleashing his fury. The DI’s eyes sweep between the two of them then he finally turns and opens the door. When it is pulled closed behind them, Greg gives a sigh of relief and grabs Mycroft around the waist, hauling the other man into him, relishing in the living warmth even through their heavy overcoats.

“You weren’t there this morning.” He stares with increasing ferocity into Mycroft’s eyes, not accusing, just searching for answers.

“No.” As always, Mycroft gives away nothing. “I needed to breathe.”

“Ah.” Greg answers, letting his grip on Mycroft’s waist fall.

“No. I was out walking, thinking.” He pushes himself back up against his lover.

Greg nods as he takes a sip of the coffee, and then pulls a face. “This is nowhere as good as that stuff John makes.” It is a release from the topic at hand because currently, they need to get on with it. The house will be swarming with police in seconds. It is enough to know that they are both alright.

“Yes.” Mycroft says quietly, and then leads them up the staircase towards the bedroom that he normally would have been sleeping in, had it been any other night. He already knows at least part of what he is going to see, his mind already having decided that Moriarity is stepping up his game.

The sight that greets them is enough to make even the strongest man break. Blood is spattered in scarlet rivers on the mattress, a stark contrast to the pristine white linen. A man’s body lies in the midst of it all, limbs relaxed as in sleep, head flat on the pillow, face turned towards the left. Greg thinks it some sort of twisted blessing that it appears the man perished without ever waking. Mycroft steps around the side of the bed and peers down at the corpse’s face. His hand hovers over the t-shirt clad shoulder as if considering giving the man a pat. He moves his hand back instead and says to the detective: “His name is Jeremy Sills. He has worked here for five years, I trusted him completely.”

Mycroft’s eyes never leave the body. The sound of the police force arriving bounces off the walls of the preternaturally quiet house; Mycroft moves to stand next to Greg and wait for the questioning to begin. Neither man gives any thought to calling John and Sherlock.

^=^

“Sherlock, look at me.” John keeps his hands on the steering wheel as he steals quick glances at his lover who is basically curled into a ball on the passenger seat with his head resting on his knees. Within his quick glances, all John can see is a messy mop of bed head, since they started moving once John snapped out of his trance. At this point, all they really know for sure is that an otherwise unidentified body was found with his throat slashed in the master suite of the house at Holmes Enterprises. It was only a matter of minutes to get dressed and for John to pack a small bag; making doubly sure Sherlock had at least his violin; and then they are out the door headed towards the airport.

The roads at this hour are virtually deserted; the recent snow has been cleared, though most people are smart enough to be at home asleep in their warm beds anyway.  He was glad that Jeff answered his telephone on the first ring, because he could think of no one else he could trust in his absence—especially because he has absolutely no way of knowing how long he is going to be gone. The other employees trust Jeff and he knows that the young man can work off the few orders he has been given in order to keep everything running smoothly.

Once again, John finds himself thankful for the off season. He thinks for a moment about the telephone call and realizes that he did not recognize the voice on the other end of the line. Just as well, he thinks, perhaps it was one of the myriad of Holmes' employees. 

He takes one hand off of the wheel to lay it on Sherlock’s knee. Sherlock lifts his head and studies John as the lights blink through the windshield; a hypnotic interplay between inky darkness and yellowish light alternately brightening and shadowing the gold of John’s neatly-trimmed hair. It seems to lull Sherlock’s troubled mind into a calm place, at least until he steps off the plane.

^=^

Jeremy’s body has been removed from the scene; the house is locked up tight and Mycroft Holmes, for the first time in his life, finds himself with nowhere to go. He stands on the front step with a suitcase in his hand; ironically the one has only just unpacked, and waits, wondering if he will ever be able to sleep in that room again. He scowls and scoffs to himself, thinking how foolish such a notion is. It is just a room, after all. He will be sure that all of the furniture in said room with be disposed of, but for now he needs a place to cool his heels for a bit.

Mycroft is staring out towards the stables when he notices that Greg is right beside him, not touching, just standing there like some type of mute sentinel. He turns his head, raises his eyebrows in the detective’s direction and asks “Greg?”

“I know my place is not much, Mycroft, but you were there last night…” His words are cut short when Mycroft shakes his head.

“No, I’ve a better idea. If you will drive I will secure us a room for a few days.” He reaches out to grasp Greg’s forearm with intent, imagining he can feel the heat of the skin underneath the layers of clothing. He leans inward, knowing that his intent is clear. Greg actually shudders a little under the touch that somehow seems _different_ from what they have shared before…perhaps a bit more intense. Without thinking, he cups the back of Mycroft’s head in his hand and pulls him against his chest until they are sharing the same breath. He surges forward to capture Mycroft’s mouth and feels a sigh escape him when the suitcase Mycroft is holding thumps against the ground.

Greg takes that as an invitation and yanks Mycroft in by the lapels on his long coat until they cannot conceivably stand any closer. Of all the times they have done this, today it feels _different_ ; he cannot put his thumb on the reason, just that some tiny thing has changed: something between them has _grown_.

“Greg…” Mycroft tries as they pull apart. He raises a hand to Greg’s lusciously kissed-warmed lips. “If you continue this line of reasoning, I do believe I will have you right here on this doorstep in a most improper manner.” Mycroft steadies himself by moving back a step. Greg’s eyes snap open, the amber and copper irises almost glowing with want.

He growls deeply in his chest. “I am dropping you off at the hotel and I will see you in two hours.” He bares his teeth like the timber wolf that he is, steps forward and catches Mycroft in his arms. He bites down on the only part of Mycroft’s neck he can reach between coat, shirt, and cravat. Mycroft stills against him, wanting to continue yet the idea that they are being impolite to the dead somehow makes him cease and desist.

“My god, detective, you drive a hard bargain.”

Greg laughs then tries desperately to reel in his libido; after all a body was just removed from the premises. Mycroft raises one elegant eyebrow but does not say anything. He picks up his suitcase and starts through the frosty grass, his hard-soled shoes crunching the tiny green spikes as he walks. Greg hangs back a little, enoying the view and wishing he did not have to return to work today.

^=^

“I know I’m wasting my time, but you really should try to rest, Sherlock.” John states from the seat next to Sherlock’s. He knows that Sherlock, being so tall, is probably uncomfortable, but there is nothing for it. They had no choice but to take the first flight they could get and sadly, that meant coach. Sherlock’s eyes turn from the window to John’s face and John cannot help that he feels like someone is tearing his heart out of his chest. There are black circles under Sherlock’s eyes, his hair is an untamed halo of frizz around his face, and the sight just makes John want to hold him. He reminds himself that they really do not know anything yet. He lays his hand alongside Sherlock’s face, placing the lobe of his ear in between John’s index and ring finger so that John can gently stroke one of those insane cheekbones with his thumb.

As ever, Sherlock watches John intently, knowing full well how it feels when their roles are reversed; though he cannot help but revel in the fact that John cares about him enough, in the same sense he can worry that he will not be there enough for his lover. Especially if…

No. He decides right then and there that they do not have enough information to go down that road.

Sherlock sighs and grabs John’s arm like a drowning man finally reaching a lifeline after floundering about in the drink for so long that he is already hearing the rustle of the silk robe worn by Death. John nods, understanding the need for comfort all too well. After a time, Sherlock finally closes his eyes and the rest of the flight is peaceful.

^=^

Standing inside the phone box at the corner of the parking lot of the airport, Sherlock is growing frustrated. No one is answering at the house, which he did not really expect: he honestly thought someone would be there to tell him what is happening. He stands for a moment and regards the phone box with his legs spread shoulder width apart as if willing the thing to take flight. When it does not move, he has an epiphany and dials Detective Lestrade.

Detective Lestrade is currently not in his office, he should try back in a while, he is told by a pleasant enough female voice. That news actually makes him relax somewhat, because had Mycroft been hurt, the dispatcher would have said that Lestrade was not there at all, or too busy to talk; telling Sherlock that the detective is not in his office means that he is somehwere in the building. Now it is just a matter of where they should go first: the precinct or the house.

He pushes open the creaky phone box door and gestures towards John, who is standing on the pavement looking for all the world like he has not seen an airport before. Sherlock joins him and as they begin to walk towards a row of cabs, John turns his face up to Sherlock’s and says simply, “I know it seems strange under the circumstances, but it feels good to be home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *growl* one of these days I'll learn to edit twice, publish once. All the silly mistakes should be fixed now, thank you all for putting up with my goofiness.


	21. We Meet Again

“Ah, Sebby darling, there you are!” For an instant, Jim reminds Sebastian of some twisted little terrier dog barking around the heels of his master when master gets home from a tough day at the office. Sebastian lets that thought stew a little bit before closing the door to the basement room that has become Moriarty's favorite hang out.  _Cave_ , his mind supplies. Once again he finds Jim perched on the edge of the massive billiard table. And once again, Patricia Watson nee Anderson is stretched out on the chaise lounge in some sort of green formal gown. Sebastian ignores the woman, who is obviously so high she’s not coming down for about twelve hours, and then turns pointedly towards his boss, putting the woman at his back as she is no threat. He unbuttons his coat and pushes it open so that Jim can see the violet blood stains standing out in relief across his white shirt.

Jim’s eyebrows threaten to shoot into his magazine-cover worthy hairline, but only for a second and then he is composed all over. He uncrosses his legs and very slowly runs his palm over his crotch, licking his lips with flair. “You did it, then.” His voice is a sultry whisper that Sebastian knows he cannot ignore, the dark red eye shadow on his eyelids drawing even more attention to the madness within. Sebastian wants to kiss him and then bite his lips off.

“It is done.” He answers, sniffing his nose at the thought of the unspeakable person he had to pay ten quid to make a single telephone call for him.

Jim leans over the pool table so that he is crouched on all fours like a dog. His small waist is set off by the silvery gray sharkskin leather trousers he is currently wearing, drawing Sebastian’s attention from his silk blood-red shirt to his ass as he crawls over to the side of it in order to get closer to Sebastian. “Come.” He gestures for Sebastian to bend down towards his face. Jim immediately licks a stripe up the Sandman’s rough cheek then purrs into his ear. “We have her formula, would you like to have a little fun?”

Sebastian shows no evidence that he has any idea what Jim is talking about. He cocks his head to the side as if he is listening to the secrets of the world and considers what sex would be like if he went ahead and split Jim’s tongue in two in reality, instead of it just being a metaphysical fantasy. Sebastian has nothing against the woman, per se, but she _has_ most certainly _seen_ too much, therefore she is no longer useful. He reaches out to run his finger tip through the black mascara rimming Jim's eyelashes and thinks about how _pretty_ he is, knowing that to say it out loud would be foolish. 

So he grins at Jim instead and wonders what it would be like if they took her between their cocks together. Jim grins like a child who has just won a free trip to a candy store and is about to seriously overindulge. “You wicked, wicked man, you.” Jim is touching him, then, peeling off his coat, but looking over his shoulder at Patricia, who is now unconscious. “A little celebration just for the Sandman and his daddy.” His beady eyes stare into the blackness of the Sandman’s nonexistent soul. “You could do her then, my darling.”

“Anything for you, Daddy.” Jim clambers down off the pool table and approaches the lounge, black eyes gleaming, with Sebastian one step behind. He hears his second most favorite sound in the world in that instant: the sound of a thick leather belt being removed from belt loops and cracked in the air like a whip. Sebastian slings the belt forward, just barely grazing the back of Jim’s trousers and Jim begins to laugh in a high-pitched squeal that reminds the Sandman of the day he sold his heart to the devil.

^=^

John is already attempting to unwind by relaxing in the cab, looking forward to a nice, hot shower and maybe a good meal; he thinks he has missed normal English cuisine and begins to study the restaurants they pass.

“I am sorry, John, but I need to go to the house.” Sherlock says, lying his gloved hands in his lap.

“Don’t apologize, Sherlock, it’s unnecessary. An explanation would be nice, though.” John tears himself and his empty belly away from the windows to offer Sherlock his full attention. He puts his back to the door and angles one leg across the backseat. 

“I need to be sure this is…” he suddenly remembers the cabbie and changes his tack. “I need to reassure myself this is the work of _that criminal_ we have been discussing, though I do not doubt it for one second; before we can make other plans.” He waits for John to get it, his fingers drumming against his thigh.

John shakes his head to the affirmative. “Alright. Dinner later, then?”

Sherlock lets out a chuckle just as they stop in front of the police station. “Of course.” He clambers out of the cab, unfolding his long limbs and thrusts a handful of bills through the driver’s window. John steps up beside him and together they enter the double doors, their legs working in an identical rythm. 

Sherlock stops at the front desk and rather curtly demands to see Detective Lestrade. He is told in no uncertain terms that the detective has officially left for the day. After he asks the third time, the sergeant is glaring daggers at him. 

“Do you have any idea where he is going?” Sherlock asks with a smirk.

The young officer behind the desk gives him a blank look that says very clearly that if Sherlock continues to argue with her he is going to end up in a holding cell. John can see it as if she’s holding up a red flag, he grabs Sherlock’s arm and drags the man back out the doors, pausing long enough to thank the young woman.

“What is wrong with you?” John spits just as the doors thump closed.

“I don’t know, John. It just seems imperative that I get answers _right now_.” He stares at John, eyes wide, almost panting, fingers raking through his hair. John believes him. 

“Get control of yourself, yeah? Let’s go on up to the house and then we will worry about the detective later. OK?” John offers, eyeing Sherlock like he is some brand new thing he has never seen before. "It seems like we would be able to find one or the other of them...." 

Sherlock nods absently and flips the collar up on his long coat.

“What’s with _that_?” John asks and points to the collar.

“What?” Sherlock stares down the street as if secretly willing a cab to appear out of thin air.

John shakes his head to clear the whole thing from between his ears and wonders for the first time if he really knows anything about Sherlock Holmes. Another cab pulls to a stop beside them, brakes squealing lightly. They drop into the backseat and Sherlock leans forward to give the cabbie the address of his family home.

^=^

Greg knows now that he has completely lost his mind when he realizes he is kneeling on the floor in front of Mycroft with the other man’s prick in his mouth making the most obscene noises he has ever heard—and that includes the times he has been in the opposite position. He has one hand each over Mycroft’s knees, giving Mycroft room to buck his hips and giving Greg the leverage to avoid being gagged. It is hot and filthy and Greg loves it; this is the first time Mycroft has ever _let_ him, has ever relinquished thefucking power. Usually when they are together, Greg always gets to finish but Mycroft always seems to hold himself back. During the flight home, Greg decided that Mycroft must have the most control of any living male on the planet or was entirely too used to blue balls. 

Mycroft groans and taps Greg on the shoulder, warning him. Greg shrugs and tightens his grip on Mycroft's knees as he finally lets go, his back arching so hard he almost falls so that Greg leans in, letting the other man know that he is there to support him. Mycroft’s knees are almost on his shoulders when Mycroft straightens and drags Greg upwards, his entire body trembling. Greg considers for a moment climbing to the top of the hotel and beating his chest with his fists in order to announce to the whole world that he made Mycroft Holmes _come_. It is primal, fierce and completely intoxicating.

Lavish kisses sear their mouths with the heat of a bowlful of chili peppers, none-so-gently pulling Greg from his testosterone-induced daydream. Mycroft grabs at Greg’s blue uniform shirt and just barely misses yanking any of the buttons off of it as they slide from their holes with a most obscene ease.  He huffs a dark chuckle under his breath and manages to strip Greg and walk him to the bed at the same time where he soon repays the favor in kind, Greg’s legs locked at the ankles about his broad shoulders, his name shouted from Greg’s lips. 

Later, when they are curled up in a ball of skin and sweat and heartbeats that are beating in time, Mycroft spreads one hand across Greg’s bare chest and whispers into his ear, his tongue flicking out with each word, “Now, I feel like _I_ am king of the world.” Greg laughs and Mycroft wears the smuggest, most amused expression that Greg finds he needs to simply kiss it off of his face.

Much later, hours even, just as Sherlock and John are stepping into a cab in front of the precinct; Mycroft considers that he has not yet called his brother to tell him about Jeremy. Greg snuffs a little in his sleep, Mycroft thinks about the International Date Line and allows sleep to reclaim him; one hand carding through the soft silver hairs just curling as the sweat dries on the nape of the detective’s neck.

^=^

Jim has the telly turned up at maximum volume, obsessively eyeing every single newscast he can find when Sebastian returns from his little errand. His eyes are cesspools of anger, the remote control clutched in bloodless fingers. His attention snaps towards Sebastian when the big man closes the door. Sebastian’s only thought is that he believed he had more time.

“Something interesting has occurred since you left, Sand-dead-man.” The temperature in the room falls about fifty degrees with the frigid sibilance of Jim’s enunciation. He pushes a button on the remote that turns the television up even higher. A high-pitched woman’s voice reading the copy makes Sebastian want to tear his own throat out with the irritation of it—never mind his mistake that Jim has just discovered.

 _…a cold-blooded murder at the manor house of Holmes Enterprises Racing, Limited occurred last night._ The bleach-blonde announcer has a sparkle in her eyes reminiscent of Moriarity himself when Sebastian finally faces the screen. He is too much of an animal to react to that revelation, but it is there nonetheless. _The victim is identified as twenty-eight year old Jeremy Sills, who was filling in for the oldest living Holmes heir, Mycroft. Mycroft was abroad recently, visiting his family’s holding in America, where his little brother, a man once voted most eligible Bachelor by_ The Racing Times _is recuperating from a nasty steeplechase accident last year…._

Jim snaps off the television and throws the remote; it lands with the efficiency of a javelin directly in the center of the cable box, knocking it to the floor with a smash.

“Now see what you have done, Sebastian. You’ve gone and made daddy sooo angry!” Jim stands in the center of the floor, his expression beyond thunderous, his hands in fists at his sides. “Nevermind the fact you fucking _lied_ to me, Sebastian, but you have put a kink in the works of a plan I have personally been constructed for _the last five_ _fuckin’ years!_ ” Jim is screeching now, not even attempting to hide the lilt of the brogue he normally manages to mask so that the word _years_ comes clearly to Sebastian’s ears as _yars._ Moriarty’s face is blood red, his ultra-whitened teeth gnashing as he advances on Sebastian.

Sebastian drops to his knees in front of Jim, awaiting his punishment. He knows that Jim will not actually kill him, at least not yet, he is needed entirely too much for the rest of the plan. Moriarty only has the power to hurt Sebastian, and only because he lets the little psychopath have it.

“I must punish you, Sebastian. You know it hurts me more than it hurts you.” Jim draws a short, slender razor-sharp switch blade from his back pocket and holds it against Sebastian’s face. “You will fix this.”

Knowing his words to be a lie that is blacker than the tar that runs through Moriarty’s veins in place of blood, Sebastian accepts his punishment and does not scream, merely fingers the little keepsake he has hidden in his jeans pocket. He manages to block out the majority of the pain by considering all of the ways he will eventually end Jim. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me share this with you: I've been wanting to write a really nasty villain for a long time. Lydia did not come out as nasty as I had intended, so I've pretty much poured it onto Jim pretty heavily. My only hope is that you all, dear readers, loathe him as much as I do; but, every Angel needs an equal Demon, I think.


	22. The Sandman Cometh

John senses that something is off the minute they get out of the cab. Though it is only mid-afternoon the sky above is ominously slate gray, making the atmosphere around them feel heavy. John cannot help but be twitchy: the last time he felt like this there was an honest-to-God tornado in Pennsylvania. Sherlock makes to breeze by him, John catches the other man’s wrist and stops him in his tracks.

“Sherlock.” Sherlock pauses. “Something, something just is not right here.”

“Right, John, a man was murdered here.” Sherlock starts to leave again.

“No.” He slides a hand up Sherlock’s back to the nape of his neck and tugs him downward for a warm kiss. “Understand?”

“Danger, John.” John notes the steely glint that deepens the color of his green irises, usually the clear of leaves after a fresh rain, now the hue of the dense, mysterious jungle.

John nods, wishing he had a gun. They move towards the house together, John exactly one step behind Sherlock. Both men are so intent on their goal that neither of them notices a small, bedraggled man slip from the shadows around the stables and run off towards the road in a strangely stiff manner, his too big shoes flopping about his feet in the manner of a pitifully unfunny clown.

^=^

“Excuse me?” Mycroft’s gravelly post-coital voice reverberates about the suite, finally landing Greg’s ear that is about the only part of him sticking out from under the ridiculously soft duvet. He opens one eye to spot his lover pacing back and forth beside the bed, limited in his anxious motions only by the length of the cord. Greg blinks himself the rest of the way awake and looks at the clock, a motion he instantly regrets. He sees how late in the day it is and feels as though he should be berated for being such a lazy sod as he scratches idly at his scalp, until the hitch in Mycroft’s tone pulls his attention back to him.

“No, Jeff, it is fine. It was probably someone else at the farm trying to help. I will call back when I have more information, in the meantime, carry on.”  He hangs up and his shoulders slump forward, showing weakness for a fraction of second before he turns to Greg with a wan smile. “I wanted to greet you with a better welcome from your nap…” He gives a vague wave of his hand towards the telephone. “However, I was thinking that no one had informed John nor my brother of what was happening here, though Jeff tells me he and John boarded a plane right after we discovered the body and they came into London early this morning.”

Greg gives his groggy mind a few minutes to catch up. “I did not call them, there was no time.” His words collide together, each one seemingly more weighted than the next. The silence becomes the loudest thing in the room for a few ticks of the clock.

“I knew that, but hearing you say it means there is more to this than meets the eye.” Mycroft settles down next to Greg, his spine stiff, one hand rubbing his forehead. Greg knows the signs of a migraine all too well. There is no stopping the actions that have already begun spinning into motion and no time to dwell on aches and pains when there are lives at stake---lives of people they care about, no less.

“Mycroft, we need to get to the house, _now_.”

^=^

John finally gets irritated with not being able to see over Sherlock’s shoulders; so he grabs his arm and then shoves him back, taking up the lead as they walk through the house. Outside, the storm that was only threatening moments ago is picking up speed and the sounds of heavy winds buffeting the house stacks an oppressive air onto the feeling that everything is just not quite right. They make their way up the steps to the master bedroom, Sherlock’s eyes sweeping the scene and taking in everything. It is a new feeling for him, like suddenly shedding light into a dark attic that no one has been in for many years. John stands back and lets him go; there’s a sense of déjà vu here that he cannot place, an odd thing that is bigger than the both of them. It is silly, but he suddenly remembers the comic books he liked as a kid and wonders if there was something to all that ‘spidey sense’ stuff.

“What can you see?” He asks quietly, trying not to disturb Sherlock.

“Little things, John, it is amazing.” He stands in the center of the room with his arms relaxed at his sides and just _looks_. He points towards the headboard where the victim’s arterial spray left a tell-tale pattern against the wood grain, tracing the pattern in the air with his index finger. “Like that.” He bends at the waist so that he is looking across the mattress, the way it would be if he were laying there looking at another person next to him. “See? The person was killed while they were on their stomach, presumably asleep. Whoever did this managed to get up the stairs and into the room without being heard. Probably a man if I have the height judged correctly: someone big enough to take wide, virtually silent strides.” He does not mention to John just _who_ the person is that he suspects; they have already discussed Jim Moriarty and his exploits _ad nauseam_ and so Sherlock is reluctant to invoke his name at this point in time, it just seems like yelling into the face of a raging hurricane: pointless and self-destructive.

^=^

“Seriously, Greg, can you drive any faster?” Mycroft sits in the passenger seat of the panda car with his hands gripping the dashboard. They have already wasted so much time stopping at the police station and picking up the car; on the other hand, with the lights running, they are getting through the traffic much faster than they would be in any other vehicle. Greg is keeping his eyes glued to the road, occasionally going around another car or even swerving into the opposite lane. Any other time it would be an exciting ride. 

As they close in on the house, Greg flips the switch that turns off the lights. He is hoping that the sounds from the storm will mask the sound of the tires crunching on gravel, because he sure in hell is not slowing down, trap or no trap. He checks in with dispatch on the radio one last time, sending his ETA down the wire and hoping that backup will show up when he needs them. 

^=^

 “Ok.” John says from the corner where he is studying a framed photograph of a younger Mycroft and Sherlock, both of them dressed in their royal purple and white racing silks. He answers the question Sherlock asks, just as the air shifts in the room. John turns his head to look over his shoulder at the doorway to see that it is blocked by one of the largest men he has ever seen, the top of the man’s head bent so as not to smack it on the top. In his hand is a long, serrated knife that gleams wickedly from a flash of lighting outside the windows. John tries to say Sherlock’s name, but he can force absolutely no sound from his throat.

In the same instant, Sherlock faces the man with a snarl on his lips and a comment about blocking what little light is available and his face goes white with shock. Outside, thunder roars above them, not quite hiding the sound of a single word from between Sherlock’s lips; a name he had hoped never to have to say aloud:

“Sandman.”


	23. Unbroken Circle

Greg and Mycroft jump out of the car at the same time, neither man bothering to close the doors. The vehicle sits in the driveway amidst the storm looking like a dejected pet dumped in the road by a disinterested owner. Greg yanks off his jacket and tosses it to the ground so that the holster he wears on his braces is free and clear. He flips the safety off of the Glock but allows it to remain where it is until they enter the house. His shirt is soaked clean through by the time Mycroft opens the door, pointedly pushing it open so that Greg can see it was not locked prior to their arrival. Greg nods and takes the lead through the house, unknowingly mirroring John’s movements from earlier. Greg points at the large, wet footprints so glaringly obvious against the tan Berber. Mycroft peers down at them then holds up his hand, asking Greg to wait. He moves towards his office, Greg in his wake.

In his office, Mycroft opens the bottom drawer on the desk with a key from the ring in his pocket. There is the faintest sound of a lock tumbler clicking before Mycroft slides open the drawer to reveal a shiny silver Colt .45. Greg’s eyes light up and even with the storm outside and heaven only knows what happening upstairs, he is incapable of stopping his joy at one more thing the two men have in common. By the way Mycroft holds the weapon; Greg can see that he is very familiar with it, he is reassured that whatever they face they do it together.

“You never told me…” he whispers.

“You never asked.” Mycroft answers. The two men retrace their steps, double checking that no one is downstairs. As they begin their ascent up the staircase, the thunder booms madly and the corridor is thrown into relief by the lightning outside.

^=^

After the crash of thunder, the lamp next to the bedroom door is suddenly turned on. From his vantage point in the corner, all John can see is a shorter man behind the larger one clapping his hands.

“Ah, my lovely lovely Sherlock, I was so hoping that we would meet again.” The shorter man says in a high pitched voice that might be better off coming out of an adolescent. “You have been such a problem for me, such a problem.” John is beginning to think that the man will not say anything without repeating it. “Even Sebby darling has been punished thinks to you.” The short man points up towards the big man’s face.

In the warm yellow light from the lamp, John can make out several nasty, and almost fresh, slashes that run the distance of the big man’s face from cheek, across the bridge of his nose, and across, almost drawing a macabre line from ear to ear. The face beneath them contains eyes that are cold, heavy eyebrows furrowed in barely concealed anger, and white teeth clenched together. John notices that one of the man’s front teeth is chipped, almost to the point of being a fang. Somewhere in the back of his mind he would not even be surprised if this person opened his mouth and actually had _fangs_ , the expression is his face is so animalistic.

^=^

Greg and Mycroft stop short of the bedroom door. As they lean against the wall, they can hear clearly the conversation inside. Mycroft says against Greg’s ear, “Moriarity.” Greg nods and replies, “we have to catch them in the act.” Mycroft nods the affirmative.

“When I say.” Greg pushes himself closer against the wall, listening for anything more than just talking, ready to finally put an end to this game.

^=^

Moriarty stalks across the room to stop directly in front of Sherlock, reaching out and placing both hands on Sherlock’s hips. Sherlock stiffens but continues to stare at Sebastian, showing no other reaction to Moriarty’s unwelcome touch. “Oh come on Sherlock, we both know that we were the best we ever had.” Jim lets his voice lilt playfully. Sherlock scowls.

In the corner, John moves as if to go to Sherlock’s side. The man in the doorway says softly, “No.” The king-sized knife in his hand remains at his side, though it leaves not a single doubt in John’s mind that it could become very dangerous very fast. Sebastian’s eyes never leave Moriarty’s back.

“Oh, Sebby please be nice to our little guest. Mr. Watson you just stay where you are. Sebby can deal with you _later_.” Moriarty finally looks at John, and John is taken aback by how young the man appears, even under the heavy eye makeup and movie-star hair. His eyes catch John off-guard, he has never seen human eyes so empty of anything resembling love, no matter the words he is spouting to Sherlock. If anything, John sees clearly a lust for revenge.

Moriarity pushes against Sherlock’s shoulder with one hand, and when he does not move, Moriarty grumbles “If you do not go along with me, you will get to watch your little pet die the same way the man in this bed went not too long ago. How would that be, baby?”

The haunted expression Sherlock turns in John’s direction threatens to melt John’s brain. He is unarmed and truly trapped. All he can think of is that if they cooperate maybe they will get out alive. “Take me instead.” He says without a trace of fear coloring his voice.

At that, Jim laughs. “Do you hear that my lovely, he thinks I just want your exquisite body!” Jim pulls Sherlock’s coat open and begins unbuttoning his jeans. “When I am done with you, there will be _nothing_ left for him.”

John stares at them in horror, his mind playing out several scenarios in which he saves Sherlock; in every single one of them, he dies.

Jim continues fumbling with Sherlock’s clothes as he talks. John can see by Sherlock’s face that he seems to have completely _checked out_. “Sherlock! Fight him!” Sebastian takes two steps into the room and backhands John the handle of his knife. John crumples to the floor in a heap.

Moriarty chuckles as he leans over Sherlock’s torso, his hand down Sherlock’s jeans. He grips Sherlock’s soft prick and rolls his single ball in his fingers. He starts laughing again, under his breath and puts his lips against Sherlock’s ear. “So that is why you would never give in to me, you seem to be only _half_ a man.” His tongue swipes against Sherlock’s skin and it finally breaks the trance he is in.

“You did this to me.” Sherlock growls without moving, his whole body trembling. He knows too well just what Moriarty is capable of. One look at Sebastian’s face is more than enough reminder.

Moriarty pauses for an instant, considering Sherlock’s words. “Well, then baby, I need to apologize to you.” He shoves a finger into Sherlock as hard as he possibly can. Sherlock screams, Moriarty croons, “but first you are _mine_ ” and Sebastian moves out of the doorway with the knife blade to strike.

^=^

In the hallway, Mycroft moves at the sound of the slap and the thump but Greg grabs his arm and holds him still. At that very second, there is a primal scream and the two men find themselves in the master bedroom staring down at a sickening tableaux.

^=^

John is just coming to in the corner. Sherlock is prone on the bed with Jim Moriarty on top of him. There is blood seeping across Moriarty’s shoulder and down his back. Sherlock is pinned underneath the body as Jim gurgles and chokes. There is a very large man with a cut up face in a trench coat in the floor on his knees at corner of the bed, not far from where John has just sat up and his rubbing the side of his head.

Greg lunges for Moriarty just as Mycroft reaches to pull his brother out from underneath.

For a small man, Moriarty is heavy, Greg discovers. He unceremoniously drops the dead man to the floor, though not without getting blood on himself in the process, though he hardly cares. His eyes are on Mycroft and Sherlock, but only for an instant. From the corner, he can see John reaching out to the big man as John’s voice echoes through the room, “No!”

It is too late. Sebastian has set the wicked knife on the floor and effectively leaned down into it. John can see that the blade has gone through the left side of the big man’s chest. Some instinct kicks in and John tries to wrestle the knife away from him; even in those few seconds it is too late. On the tail end of the sound of the Sandman’s last gasp is the wailing of police sirens. The cavalry has arrived.

John stands up, his head spinning, though he has enough clarity to reach toward Sherlock. Sherlock is pulling away from his brother and reaching for John and his mouth is moving but John cannot hear; Greg is standing there, stunned and Mycroft, Mycroft is talking too, but John cannot understand any of it—the only thing he recognizes is that Sherlock is alright, he is fine just as the colors in the room swirl into nothing and the world goes black for the second time.

^=^

Springtime in Pennsylvania is a beautiful time of year. It is after ten o’clock and John Watson is kneeling in Ebony’s stall. The black mare is on her side, blowing hard, her skin twitching and sides heaving as she struggles through her labor. He reaches out to fondle her muzzle lovingly and the mare responds with a snort. She relaxes again and he settles to the floor in order to cushion her head in his lap.

He has been so busy getting back into the swing of his life that only today he has found himself thinking about what happened that night that he ended up back in hospital for a week. He remembers a feeling in between the fear that reminds him of winning steeplechases; he tries hard not to call it _exhilaration_. He thinks of Sherlock fondly and wishes they had found some way to be together after all. He understands Sherlock’s need to remain at home, after all; and as much as he enjoyed learning to drive the Standardbreds, John knows that it is no replacement for the thrill of soaring over jumps and bounding head first down the stretch to the finish line.

This he knows very well.

They have spoken on the telephone several times in the past few months, generally on a quiet Sunday night when they both have some free time and they have exchanged letters with even more frequency. He is happy to know that Sherlock has found a sort of hobby in helping detective Lestrade, no wait, the man was just promoted to DI, so D.I. Lestrade, in between backing winners. Greg and Mycroft are still an item and it seems that the newly-minted DI has taken up residence in the big house. Sherlock sent him a photograph of the two of them enjoying mimosas at the track one morning.

In the photo, the two men sit close, drinks in hand, their eyes intent not on the race below them but on each other’s faces. The sun has captured the look of pure unadulterated joy in each man’s expression as they were unaware of the picture being taken. John had it framed and it hangs in the lounge next to a copy of the photo of Mycroft and Sherlock in their racing silks that he first saw in Mycroft’s bedroom. He is thrilled for all of them, even while his desire to be near Sherlock seems to be reaching into his chest and squeezing his heart.

John is more than pleased that Sherlock seems to have suffered no ill effects from Moriarty’s unwanted ministrations that awful day. He wonders if the side of Sherlock’s bed feels as cold to him as John’s does most nights. The caboose of this train of thought is that he received notice a week ago that Patricia’s body was discovered in a hastily-dug grave out in one of the pastures at Moriarty’s White Fox Stables alongside several others of horses that would eventually turn out to be those that had been replaced by ringers at different times througout the past year.. Apparently the powers that be are having a field day processing the massive place, and Moriarty’s fall from grace even made the evening news in the ‘states. The body count is staggering enough on one side of the pond that each new discovery on this side just makes the news anchors salivate for more of the story; to the point where John has taken to listening to classical music in the evenings instead of staring at the telly.

Somehow, after losing Tracy, it is difficult to look into his heart and mourn his ex-wife, since it was her fault their daughter died in the first place. He thinks about the exquisitely sad songs coaxed from a violin late at night by magician’s hands and sees himself as nothing more than a single blade of grass in the vast unplowed fields of the world around him. It is both an epiphany and a fact; he has passed the test and stayed alive and even though it hurts now, eventually the old cliché that time heals all wounds will hold true. Eventually.

And so the tears fall, finally, after all this time. With the warmth of the mare’s head against his thighs, he breaks down and cries. He absently strokes her cheek and plays with her forelock as she huffs and struggles to bring new life into the world. Ebony has been through this before, she knows what is happening and does not fight against it the way a maiden mare might do, so John feels safe with her. She does not judge the tears staining his face. He mumbles to the mare, trying to comfort the other living creature through his own grief. In another life, he may have made a decent doctor, or perhaps a veterinarian.

John is completely unaware of the passage of time. His thoughts turn back to Sherlock and how he seems to be more alone now than he was before. He remembers thinking that his life was going to change for the worst, but, in reality, at least as far as Sherlock is concerned; it really changed for the better. Losing his daughter will always be a tender spot in his heart, though he knows she would have pushed him to keep going; to keep doing something good in the world.

Ebony huffs again, moving her head from his lap as she looks back and lifts her tail. There is the sound of her water breaking, so John stands in order to help her if necessary. Her flanks quiver, the muscles bearing down and she whickers softly, a sound of welcome. John is concentrating so hard on the scene before him that he misses the metallic shirk of the latch on the stall door sliding over. He even misses the footsteps behind him, however, he does not miss the way long, lean arms embrace him and squash him tight against a chest with a heart that he immediately understands beats only for him. Ebony’s tail swishes against the soft bedding and her ears twitch back and forth.

“You are here.” John says simply before turning in those arms and looking up at the one person in the world who can chase away the shadows of his memories. In the dimness of the stable around them, Sherlock’s eyes are a well of mystery that John cannot wait to solve. The taller man bends forward and manages to both pull John even closer and capture his mouth at the same time. The kiss begins as a soft thing, then deepens, becomes needy. John’s body responds and he feels Sherlock’s do the same against him. He carefully pushes a hand between them to gently stroke the front of Sherlock’s chinos. The soft material is unexpected so that John moves back a step to see and there is a soft whicker behind him.

He turns to see Ebony on her feet, her neck arched gracefully as she licks at what appears to be a soaking wet lump on the floor by her hooves. She stops for a second to look up at John and he swears she is searching for approval. He refuses to stop the laugh that rolls from his chest. Ebony’s ears go flat against her head and she returns to her former ministrations. John starts to move out of the stall to grab a towel from the stack he placed near the door, but Sherlock is already holding one out for him.

Sherlock’s eyes, however, are only for the foal. He is watching it with an expression John has never seen. He thinks it is perhaps a bit of wonder mixed in with…what? He wipes the baby down quickly, careful not to over dry her coat that seems to be bright chestnut and interrupt the bonding process between baby and mother. When the filly stands and begins to nurse, he gives the mare a pat on the shoulder, tells her she has done a marvelous job and at last feels as if he can leave them.

John closes the top partition of the stall door and clicks the latches into place. For now it is best to give them some space. Sherlock is in his space suddenly, gripping the sides of his face with both hands and leaning in for a deeper, more passionate kiss. When it goes on so long John feels like he is going to burst, Sherlock moves his hands so that they rest against the wood, bracketing John’s head.

“I have missed you.” Sherlock purrs.

John cups his cheek, enjoying the feel of the smooth skin under his palm, marveling at the smoothness even at this time of night. He allows his hand to fall to Sherlock’s chest where he presses it against Sherlock’s heart. He does not want to have to ask, but it is necessary to know exactly when he can allow his joy to expire. “How long can you stay?”

John’s heart begins to pound as he awaits the answer. Sherlock’s lips are suddenly on the side of his neck and then beside his ear an impossibly deep and lust-filled baritone says, “Until you tire of me.”

John laughs and laughs until he can barely stand up.

^=^

When he wakes up the next morning completely covered in a very naked and now retired six foot tall jump jockey, his heart swells and blooms with the knowledge that he could never tire of it all. It has been a difficult road, though together they can make it. He strokes Sherlock’s back and the other man mumbles against his neck. Sure, they need to talk about this and there will be some hard decisions to make. John knows deep inside that they will face those hurdles together, and for that, they will be stronger as one than they ever were as two.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...and that's all folks! Thank you so much to every person who bookmarked, subscribed, commented and even just started reading this piece...without readers there are no writers! I most definitely want to hand out ginormously huge kudos across the pond to lobstergirl for saying "try it!" even after reading through my rather weak outline for this story.
> 
> I wanted to share a world that I miss dearly every single day with the readers, who have certainly caught a small glimpse within. 
> 
> Thank you all! I am going to try my hand at Nan-no Wri Mo, though I must admit I will be trying my hand at an all-original piece. It is nerve wracking, but, understand that because of all of you I have found the courage to try. I cannot thank you all enough.


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